“Yes, Caroline--I’ve been watching the almonds bloom--I have been walking on air--in realms where there is no solid, base, nor tangible reality. Tush! And you would call me--not sober!... Most--ridiculous--prejudice!... Why should people of taste be sober, when by tasting what tastes well they may walk on air? Such a strange convention!... Consider the position: You stroll down the filthy Strand in muddied boots, all the shabby world hurrying by, thinking sordidly of money and greynesses--or crawling along with hunger in their eyes under the miserable gas-lamps.... Sip the nectar of the gods, commune with Bacchus, and you are in a street of the world of dreams--you are a-riot--you walk on the wind--the trees are all in bloom--faces are laughing at you--the very cast-iron lamps come to greet you--the air is full of music--you sing--everyone sings!... Tush! you are a god.” “Ah, Andrew--when vice becomes a virtue, virtue seems but a feeble vice.” Andrew Blotte laughed: “It’s your trick, Caroline,” he said airily; and added, in a thick-voiced confidential aside, glancing round the room with drunken caution: “It’s rather a confidential matter, Caroline--but--we seem to be amongst friends. So I suppose it’s all right. We’re amongst intimates, eh? Good! All right.” He whistled a refrain gallingly out of tune. “Andrew!--Andrew----!” She put her white hand on his arm. Andrew Blotte patted the slender fingers: “Now don’t go wasting shame on me, Caroline. The fact is--nobody ever expects me to be in anything but a shameful condition. Think what a disappointment I must be when I am sober! What more embarrassing to a sober community than the return of the prodigal son?”... He laughed sadly, then seriousness came back to him. “But what I want to say is this: I hear you want money.... Well, I can lend you a loan.... I can’t get it to-day because--well, you see, it’s rather a ridiculous position--the fact is, I’m not quite aggressively sober--and my landlady has strict orders not to give me any money unless I am able to count a handful of small change without leaning for support on a physical basis.... Rather acute, I think--isn’t it?... But I’ll make a note of it for to-morrow. I’ll tie a knot on my handkerchief--hic----” (He fumbled for his handkerchief with drunken awkwardness.) “No!--_you_ tie a knot on my handkerchief.” He held it out, and she took it to humour the poor fellow. “Andrew,” she said, “do go and rest awhile in Anthony’s room. There’s a comfortable armchair for you.” “No,” he said peevishly, “I don’t want to rest. I’m always resting. Andrew Blotte is tired of Andrew Blotte....” His mood suddenly changed; a light came into his eyes: “Yes,” said he, “I will promise to rest--if you’ll promise to take my loan.” Caroline shook her head. Lovegood went over to him: “Come, Blotte,” said he. Andrew Blotte shook his head: