Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. Surely Capes was different. Now I’d like the rest of your story. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. The coachman having received his order, and being offered an extra fare if he drove quickly, set off at full speed. Please yourself. " "De duivel!" exclaimed Van Galgebrok, "Very well. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips.
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