I saw Tarlyon looking at him queerly. He knew Antony much better than I did, for many and many a year ago he was a junior subaltern in the mess when Antony threw a bottle at the head of an extremely superior officer. The bottle was full, the aim was true, and Antony was cashiered with all due pomp and dishonour. But, through all his subsequent follies, Tarlyon had liked him. One couldn’t, of course, defend Antony; but the very few who had once liked Red Antony always, somehow, went on liking him. There was something about the man, a sort of tremendous gallantry, an air of shameless bravado, a thunder of individuality, which might have made him a simple and lovable giant--but for a grain of rotten subtlety somewhere in him. Fine timber worm-eaten, Tarlyon said. Not, of course, said Tarlyon, that himself was anything to write home about. “What’s the matter, old Antony?” Tarlyon asked kindly. “You’ve changed enormously....” Now I had noticed no particular change, except, perhaps, that handsome Antony looked his forty years and more; but Tarlyon knew him better. “How have I changed?” snapped Antony. He hated kindness; he thought he was being pitied. “You look a bit worn, old boy, that’s all,” said George lightly. “If it comes to that, you aren’t the man you were, what with war, wine, and women!” “Talking of wine,” I thought to say, “one always understood that you’d die of drink, Antony. That’s probably what George meant when he said you looked worn.” I wished I had kept my mouth shut. His eyes blazed over me ... but he restrained himself; and Antony’s “restraint” was a portentous business--it made a noise like a fast car with the brakes jammed on. “Drink!” he said sharply. “I drink nothing to speak of nowadays. There’s an end to all things....” Now the lion’s bedside manner is a significant thing, and even more significant is it when the lion in the fulness of his strength sways a little, just a little; and what would make Red Antony sway just a little would be enough to put another man under the table, and no dishonour to the strength of his head, either. “I do not wish,” said Antony reasonably, “that you should think me irresponsible through excess of stimulant. The things that are happening to me are not happening through drink, and you must bear that in mind. I am saner than a sane man, though I can hear and see and smell things that a sane man would die of....” Tarlyon looked at me meaningly. Antony seemed to have forgotten us. Tarlyon took his arm. “We can’t stay here all night,” he said. “Let us now leave Park Lane in a body and go to my house....” Antony woke up; he threw back his head and howled: “Taxi!” “All right, sir, all right,” said the policeman gently. “You don’t need to shout like that.” That was a brave policeman. “I insist on shouting,” boomed Antony. “Taxi!”