Elim's face, expressing little of the tumult
within, harsh and dark and dogged, was entirely appropriate to his
somber greenish-black dress. Kaperton gestured toward the bottle, and
they took a second drink, then a third.
Kaperton's face flushed, he grew increasingly voluble, but Elim
Meikeljohn was silent; the liquor made no apparent impression upon him.
He sat across the table from the other with his legs extended straight
before him. They emptied the decanter of spirits and turned to sherry,
anything that was left. Kaperton apologized profoundly for the depleted
state of his cellar--knowing that he was leaving, he had invited a
party of men to his room the night before. He was tremendously sorry
that Elim had been overlooked--the truth being that no one had known
what a good companion Elim was.
It seemed to Elim Meikeljohn, drinking sherry, that the night before he
had not existed at all. He did not analyze his new being, his
surprising potations; he was proceeding without a cautious ordering of
his steps. It was neither a celebration nor a protest, but instinctive,
like the indiscriminate gulping of a man who has been swimming under
the water.
"Why," Kaperton gasped, "you've got a head like a cannon ball."
He rose and wandered unsteadily about, but Elim sat motionless, silent,
drinking. He was conscious now of a drumming in his ears like distant
martial music, a confused echo like the beat of countless feet. He
tilted his glass and was surprised to find it empty.
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