It would be difficult to express what Pitman suffered in the cab: cold,

wet, terror in the capital degree, a grounded distrust of the commander

under whom he served, a sense of imprudency in the matter of the

low-necked shirt, a bitter sense of the decline and fall involved in the

deprivation of his beard, all these were among the ingredients of the

bowl. To reach the restaurant, for which they were deviously steering,

was the first relief. To hear Michael bespeak a private room was a

second and a still greater. Nor, as they mounted the stair under the

guidance of an unintelligible alien, did he fail to note with gratitude

the fewness of the persons present, or the still more cheering fact that

the greater part of these were exiles from the land of France. It was

thus a blessed thought that none of them would be connected with the

Seminary; for even the French professor, though admittedly a Papist, he

could scarce imagine frequenting so rakish an establishment.

The alien introduced them into a small bare room with a single table,

a sofa, and a dwarfish fire; and Michael called promptly for more coals

and a couple of brandies and sodas.

'O, no,' said Pitman, 'surely not--no more to drink.'

'I don't know what you would be at,' said Michael plaintively. 'It's

positively necessary to do something; and one shouldn't smoke before

meals I thought that was understood. You seem to have no idea

of hygiene.' And he compared his watch with the clock upon the

chimney-piece.

124

The Wrong Box