"No--no," protested Vane, "I'm not in the mood."
"The very reason why you should drink," quoth one.
"But I've sworn not to touch a drop of anything stronger than coffee or
chocolate for a week. I had too much port last night."
"Worse and worse. Hang it man, whatever you may have been at Oxford
University you are no disputant now. Your resolution to be virtuous for
a week won't last a day unless you strengthen it. And what strengthens
the wit more than wine?"
"Get thee gone Satan. I'm not to be tempted by a paradox."
Vane did not speak with conviction. His spirits were low. Curll's offer
was worrying him. To be in the service of such a man, whose personal
character was as infamous as some of the books he published, was a
humiliation. It meant the prostitution of his faculties. He shuddered at
the prospect of becoming one of Curll's slaves to some of whom he paid a
mere pittance and who were sunk so low they had no alternative but to do
his bidding.
Meanwhile the second man had thrust his arm within Vane's and had led
him along a few paces, when suddenly the imprisoned arm was withdrawn
and Vane pulled himself up. He had caught sight of a Nithsdale cloak
with the face he had been dreaming about all day peeping from beneath
the hood.
"Jarvis--Compton--let me go," he exclaimed, "another time."
He violently wrenched himself free. They followed his eyes and
instinctively guessed the reason of his objection.
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