But the door was still a door and it was shut: and now ajar. Through it, on the porch he saw the whiskey bottle, slightly smaller and emptier of hope than the Burke’s Irish, standing forlornly. Yvonne had not opposed a snifter: he had been unjust to her. Yet was that any reason why he should be unjust also to the bottle? Nothing in the world was more terrible than an empty bottle! Unless it was an empty glass. But he could wait: yes, sometimes he knew when to leave it alone. He wandered back to the bed thinking or saying:
“Yes: I can see the reviews now. Mr. Firmin’s sensational new data on Atlantis! The most extraordinary thing of its kind since Donnelly! Interrupted by his untimely death . . . Marvellous. And the chapters on the alchemists! Which beat the Bishop of Tasmania to a frazzle
