“Let us stroll out into the cool air,” said Harcourt. “See what a gorgeous night of stars it is!” “That you may resume your discourse on patience and resignation!” said Glencore, scoffingly. “No, sir. If I must listen to you, let me have at least the aid of the decanter. Your bitter maxims are a bad substitute for olives, but I must have wine to swallow them.” “I never meant them to be so distasteful to you,” said Harcourt, good-humoredly. “Say, rather, you troubled your head little whether they were or not,” replied Glencore, whose voice was now thick from passion and drink together. “You and Upton, and two or three others, presume to lecture _me_--who, because gifted, if you call it gifted--I'd say cursed--ay, sir, cursed with coarser natures--temperaments where higher sentiments have no place--fellows that can make what they feel subordinate to what they want--you appreciate _that_, I hope--_that_ stings you, does it? Well, sir, you'll find me as ready to act as to speak. There's not a word I utter here I mean to retract to-morrow.” “My dear Glencore, we have both taken too much wine.” “Speak for yourself, sir. If you desire to make the claret the excuse for your language, I can only say it's like everything else in your conduct,--always a subterfuge, always a scapegoat. Oh, George, George, I never suspected this in you;” and burying his head between his hands, he burst into tears. He never spoke a word as Harcourt assisted him to the carriage, nor did he open his lips on the road homewards. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE VILLA AT SORRENTO