“Oh, yes--get me off the rails, of course! But I always notice that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself about a woman (hiccup)--fool enough, I mean, to become engaged--he becomes mollar’ly (hic)--mollarly austere.” “Oh, damn!” said Doome. Ffolliott raised drunken eyelids: “But saying damn can go with great moral austerity.” He paused and uttered a giggle. “That’s an epigram, I think,” he said. “What on earth are you jabbering about, Ffolliott?” Ffolliott stuck to his theme with drunken persistence. “A fellow who is engaged doesn’t seem to laugh at the same places in the _comedy of life_ that he laughs at before he is engaged.” “Get on, Ffolliott--get on. You talk like Euclid trying to invent a comic song.” Ffolliott blinked: “I’ve always noticed,” said he--“that a fellow does not become really austere until he is engaged....” He sighed heavily. “I know such a good chap, who’s become engaged. He used to read the _Pink Un_; but now he reads _The Descent of Man_.” “Shush!” said Doome impatiently. Ffolliott giggled: “D’you know,” said he--“I started to tell him such a comic story to-day--by George, I’ll tell it to _you_,” he tittered. “You know how ridiculous a woman with a pronounced nose looks in a bathing-dress! Well. But--perhaps I’d better not tell you--I’m _sure_ you’re engaged----” Doome slapped the narrow shoulders again with jovial hand, and sent more liquor flying down Ffolliott’s trousers: “By Hermes, you are a clever fellow, Ffolliott,” said he. “Oh, no--not always,” bleated the affected voice of Ffolliott--“I’m rather deliriously clever at times--in a flukey sort of way. I don’t mean to be. It’s hereditary. My mother’s uncle was a rural dean, you know, and----” “But why do you wear an eyeglass?” Ffolliott simpered: “Foljambe of Baliol was the most pronounced man at the ’varsity; he is the most pronounced man at the bar--and Foljambe wears an eyeglass.” “_Does_ he?” “Rather,” bleated Ffolliott. “And though, between you and me (hiccup), Foljambe’s a conceited ass, he is rather a remarkable ass; and I don’t know whether you have noticed it (hiccup), but in these days it takes rather a clever fellow to be a _remarkable_ ass.” Doome smote Ffolliott a rollicking buffet, that sent more liquor down his trousers: “By the Greek gods,” cried Doome, “we are having a roaring evening, eh? Hang me, we are only bachelors once--so we’ll make gay whilst the moon shines. Damn it, you shall sing.” “Oh, yes; I’ll sing. I can’t--but I will----” Fluffy Reubens came up and pushed Ffolliott aside roughly: “Hist!” said he--“Doome, the bailiff’s asleep....” He turned round and called in a loud whisper: “Rippley!” “’Ullo!” “Have you got the furniture vans all ready?” “Yes.” “Where are they?” “In my studio,” said Rippley. “I hope to Jupiter the horses haven’t knocked the stuffing out of my stattoos. I tipped the men to stay all night.”