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"We shall be obliged to force it. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. Tol-de-rol!" As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. Degree! degree! She smiled on a gallant of high degree. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan.
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