“I see,” said Miss Moonbeam. “You didn’t get on together?” “I meant the Portugalade,” said Ezekiel. “—I can only implore you,” I continued, “while there’s still time—before the craving for stimulants has finally overcome you—to cast them away from you with both hands, to crush them under foot, to leave them for ever.” I glanced at Ezekiel, who was wiping his mouth. “And, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “why should you hesitate? Have you not here—or had you not there, rather—in the very glass that my friend has just emptied, a drink as genial, as palatable and invigorating as the most debauched of you could desire?” “We have, we have,” they cried. “Then, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “before we further address you on the evils of the drama, may I not beg of you to make up your minds to drink nothing less healthful than this in the future?” “You may, you may,” they said. I turned to Ezekiel. “Then I’ll ask Mr. Stool,” I said, “to inaugurate our second appeal.” I then stood aside while Ezekiel cleared his throat preparatory to delivering his usual oration, and it was during the course of this that Miss Moonbeam drew me aside and informed me how much she had appreciated my letter. “I thought it was so dear of you,” she said, “to let your friend down without seeming to want to do anything of the kind.” “It was certainly difficult,” I said. “But you managed it so beautifully,” she said. “How long do you suppose he will go on speaking?” “Twenty minutes,” I said. “This is his half-hour harangue.” She was looking a little pale, I thought. But she smiled bravely. “Well, I suppose we deserve it,” she said. “Oh, undoubtedly,” I replied, “and he wants you to attend one of our meetings.” “What—all of us?” she asked. “You would all be welcome,” I said. “And would you be there too?” she asked, pressing my hand. “Why, of course,” I said, permitting her to continue pressing, “I am the Vice-President.” “Yes, I know,” she whispered. Here Ezekiel paused for a moment and glanced at us keenly. But Miss Moonbeam at once smiled at him and clapped her hands. “You don’t think he’s jealous?” she said, as he continued. “Jealous of what?” I asked. “Why, of you and me,” she said. She was pressing my hand again and endeavouring to draw closer to me. “Well, I’m rather afraid,” I said, “that he may be.” “You see,” said Miss Moonbeam, “if I’m to be rescued by anybody, I should so like it to be by you.” “Dear Mary,” I said, “and so it shall, at whatever cost, at whatever sacrifice.” “Dear Augustus,” she said. “May I call you Augustus? It sounds so ungrateful to say Mr. Carp.” “Yes, yes,” I said. “I can quite understand it. But I would rather you suppressed the familiarity in public.”