Mr Abbott rang a bell. A young and rather nervous clerk came in, and gazed anxiously from one to the other, for Cosmo’s face was unfamiliar to him, and there had been quarrels of late. “Arthur,” said Mr Abbott, “is it Friday or Monday that the _Patagonia_ sails?” Cosmo looked up with something like a scare on his face; he knew from his reading how often these irrelevant questions may be leading up to some great move. “Monday, sir,” said Arthur in a whisper. “Then you can just have the box of cigars sent here,” said Mr Abbott jovially; “I’ll give ’em to Cap’n Gunn meself. I’d prefer to do that. Rather than he shouldn’t have had ’em o’ course I’d have sent ’em aboard. I thought someowrother she sailed to-morrow. As ’tis, why I’ll give ’em to him myself. That’s all right, Arthur.” Mr Abbott nodded and Arthur disappeared, relieved. “I’m sorry, Cosmo,” said Mr Abbott, leaning familiarly across the table like a second-rate uncle, and wiping an enormous red handkerchief over his face; I’m sorry; these things aren’t of much importance, but if one don’t attend to ’em at a time, you know....” I have had to praise Cosmo for many things in these pages, as I have had to blame him for a few; for nothing was he more worthy of praise than for his complete command of himself at this moment. The effort of the severe strain was hardly perceptible; certainly not to so brutish a nature as his opponent’s. “You were just saying, lad,” said Mr Abbott, with increasing coarseness and kindliness, “how the thing couldn’t go on. Well, I’m sorry for it. But you can sell out, ye know, and so can your poor old dad. Hasn’t come to see me for weeks and weeks!” Mr Abbott shook his head. “You can sell out, you know. Of course, I dunno’ how it’ll look, mind ye, but you can run the risk that there won’t be any trial; safe risk to run now-a-days.” Cosmo answered him in the clear measured voice of a man whose plan is exactly defined, and who is dealing with forces as irresponsible as those of nature. “Mr Abbott,” he said, “it is twenty-five minutes past eleven; if I do not know before half-past that you are coming in, I shall go, and our plans will be made accordingly.” “And then the band played,” answered Mr Abbott with exquisite vulgarity. It was his theory (a theory which had so far controlled him in this exchange of views) that a man should never lose his temper. He gave way to passion as little as possible. Three times a week, perhaps, or five at the utmost. Upon this occasion he struggled with himself; in less than a moment came what is inevitable with men of Mr Abbott’s hopeless type; he exploded. “And then the band played,” he repeated somewhat inconsequently, “and then the—! —! —! band played!” With each repetition, his face got redder and redder, and his voice rose: not very loudly, but soughing as do the boughs of trees at the beginning of a storm.