But none ever puts his foot on this boat. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. He remained talking with her however. You simply can’t.
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