“Then you could have spared yourself the trouble,” he said. “I don’t want to see your face again.” “But, my dear sir,” I said. “I’m not your dear sir,” he shouted. “I’m not your dear anything. I’ve no further use for you.” But I held up my hand again. “I must beg you to control yourself,” I said, “until this unfortunate mishap has been fully explained to you.” “Mishap?” he said. “Do you call it a mishap, sir, to invite your employer to a religious gathering and leave him to be received by a thing like a stunted gorilla, because you’re too drunk to stand by yourself?” “But, my dear sir,” I began. “Don’t say that again,” he said. “Don’t say anything again. I don’t want to hear it. You were drunk, sir. You were damnably drunk. You were so drunk that you fell off the platform.” Involuntarily I winced, as who would not have done? But once more I held up my hand. “Mr. Lorton,” I said, “you have forgotten who I am, or such words could never have escaped you. And I was neither drunk, nor would have such a thing have been possible. I was merely suffering from deliberate port-poisoning.” If anything, however, he became more violent. “Port-poisoning?” he bawled. “What’s port-poisoning? Port isn’t poison, sir. I drink it myself. In fact I was obliged, sir, to drink some of your own—an excellent port, sir, that probably saved my life.” “I regret to hear it,” I said. “But allow me to point out to you that the fluid you mention was not my own, and that I had been informed by its donors that it was a species of fruit squash, imported from Portugal and known as Portugalade.” “But, good God, sir, there’s no such thing.” “Precisely,” I replied. “That’s my point.” “Your point?” he cried. “What do you mean by your point?” “Why, that I was refreshed,” I said, “and subsequently disabled by a beverage that has no existence.” “Then you’re a fool,” he said. “You’re either a knave, sir—a drunken knave—or a fool.” “Then am I to understand,” I said, “that I am no longer show-room manager?” “You’re no longer anything,” he said, “in any business of mine.” I leaned against the wall. “And you call yourself a Xtian gentleman?” I said. “I certainly do,” he said, “and I thank God for it.” Then I stood erect again, dashing the tears from my eyes. He pulled out his handkerchief. “Don’t wet me,” he said. “It was inadvertent,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied. “And I apologize,” I said, “to the moisture.” For a moment he gaped at me, and little wonder. It was perhaps the crushingest remark in human history. “I apologize,” I said, “to the moisture.” Yes, it must have cut him to the quick. It was so crushing, indeed, that I repeated it to Miss Botterill. “Miss Botterill,” I said, “I am leaving.” “Yes, I know,” she said. “I knew before you came.” “May I beg,” I replied, “that you won’t interrupt me.” She was silent and I continued. “And one of my tears,” I said, “fell on Mr. Chrysostom.” “Oh dear,” she said. “Poor Mr. Chrysostom.”