'I never left it off. I Cheap Jack in my sleep and make thundering profits. It is disappointing to wake in the morning and see all the goods—and damaged ones too—on the shelves where they were the night before, after I had sold them off in my dreams at twenty-five and thirty per cent. profits. There's an epergne has been the nightmare to father and me. I wanted Kainie to take it, but she wouldn't. Suppose you buy it and present it to her, and so make peace and love between you?' 'Have done. I told you I did not wish you to know her.' 'But I went on business, and my time was wasted.' 'You have also been with that—that fellow.' 'Yes, with Mark. I took him out for a drive.' 'In the road, in the van?' 'Yes; the van wanted sweetening. The fowls have been roosting on it, and have treated it shamefully.' 'Be silent. What are you playing with behind your back?' 'I am playing with nothing. I am always at work or doing business. I never play.' 'And what work or business are you engaged on now?' 'I am polishing the handle of the door.' 'You not play? You never play?' exclaimed Drownlands, starting to his feet. 'You are always at play, and I am your sport. You play me as a fish, you dagg me like a pike. Look at this.' He went to the corner of his room, and from the collection there thrown together produced a singular weapon or tool, locally termed a gleve. 'Do you know the use of this?' 'No.' 'It is for playing,' said Drownlands bitterly. 'See, there are six knives tied together by the handles at the head, and all the blades have been jagged like saws, the teeth set backwards. Can you guess its purpose?' 'No; it's not a woman's tool.' 'It is for playing—playing with pike. You take this and dagg into the water; you dagg and dagg, and bring up a pike or an eel wedged between these blades, cut into by these fangs. He cannot free himself; the more he twists and turns, the deeper into his flesh bite these teeth, and the greater is his anguish of heart. That is play—play for him who does the dagging, not for the poor fish that is speared. And, Zita, such is your play. With your fingers, with your tongue, with your brown eyes, you dagg for me, and I am the miserable wretch whom you torture. It may be fun to you.' 'I do not make sport with you, master,' said Zita, with placidity of feature and evenness of tone in strong contrast with his working face and quivering voice. 'You are at that handle again. Polishing it! Leave off, or you will drive me mad. Can you not for one moment desist from tormenting me? You seek out occasion, means, to twang my every nerve, and give me pain.'