"
"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at the saloon
table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold collation. "We've had
a good deal of climbing about and rowing; it's taken it out of us a
little."
Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and managed to dispose
of an excellent supper. The meal concluded, Duprez helped himself to a
tiny liqueur glass of Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the
day, a mild luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception of
Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was
nae mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his interior
mechanism with alcohol in spite of the doctrines of hygiene, and was now
absorbed in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and
poison--his usual preparation for a night's rest.
Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted silence.
Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook himself like a retriever,
yawned, and sauntered to the piano that occupied a dim corner of the
saloon, and began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which,
though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the
true lover of music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument, or a
false note would be most exquisite agony.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174