Don't you wish you were a bachelor and could go to Hell or Honolulu--wherever you chose without a care?
Ho! ho! ho!" He linked his arm in mine, and said in what he thought was a whisper: "For Heaven's sake let us go in and try to find a real drink." We went into a deserted smoking-room where decanters and siphons were set out.

Jaffery helped himself to a mighty whisky and soda and poured it down his throat.
"You seemed to want that," said I, drily.
"It's this infernal kit," said he, with a gesture including his frock coat and patent leather boots.

"For gossamer comfort give me a suit of armour.

At any rate that's a man's kit." I made some jesting answer; but it had been given to me to see that transient shadow of pain and despair, and I knew that the discomfort of the garments of civilisation had nothing to do with the swallowing of the huge jorum of alcohol.
Of course I told Barbara all about it--it is best to establish your wife in the habit of thinking you tell her everything--and she was more than usually gentle to Jaffery.

We carried him down with us to Northlands that afternoon, calling at his club for a suit-case.