He smiled and stirred a little
in the bath till the water reached the white hairs on his lower lip.
It smelt nice! And he took a long sniff: He had had a good life, a good
life! And with the thought that he had it in his power at any moment to
put Master Ventnor's nose out of joint--to beat the beggar after all, a
sense of assuagement and well-being crept over him. His blood ran
more evenly again. He closed his eyes. They talked about an
after-life--people like that holy woman. Gammon! You went to sleep--a
long sleep; no dreams. A nap after dinner! Dinner! His tongue sought his
palate! Yes! he could eat a good dinner! That dog hadn't put him off his
stroke! The best dinner he had ever eaten was the one he gave to Jack
Herring, Chichester, Thornworthy, Nick Treffry and Jolyon Forsyte at
Pole's. Good Lord! In 'sixty--yes--'sixty-five? Just before he fell in
love with Alice Larne--ten years before he came to Liverpool. That was
a dinner! Cost twenty-four pounds for the six of them--and Forsyte
an absurdly moderate fellow. Only Nick Treff'ry and himself had been
three-bottle men! Dead! Every jack man of them. And suddenly he thought:
'My name's a good one--I was never down before--never beaten!'
A voice above the steam said:
"The twenty minutes is up, sir.
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