Pierston had sat down in an arm-chair, and Somers had resumed his painting. When a servant had brought in brandy to soothe Pierston's nerves, and soda to take off the injurious effects of the brandy, and milk to take off the depleting effects of the soda, Jocelyn began his narrative, addressing it rather to Somers's Gothic chimneypiece, and Somers's Gothic clock, and Somers's Gothic rugs, than to Somers himself, who stood at his picture a little behind his friend.
'Before I tell you what has happened to me,' Pierston said, 'I want to let you know the manner of man I am.'
'Lord--I know already.'
'No, you don't. It is a sort of thing one doesn't like to talk of. I lie awake at night thinking about it.'
'No!' said Somers, with more sympathy, seeing that his friend was really troubled.
'I am under a curious curse, or influence. I am posed, puzzled and perplexed by the legerdemain of a creature--a deity rather; by Aphrodite, as a poet would put it, as I should put it myself in marble. ... But I forget--this is not to be a deprecatory wail, but a defence--a sort of Apologia pro vita mea.'
'That's better. Fire away!'