It was
weak of them.
They ought to have waited. For Keith was fond of solitude at all times,
and any one of his dozen gardeners could have told them that, like
every other self-respecting scholar, he was in the habit of
breakfasting not earlier than 9.30, and dangerous to approach before
that meal. Or they might have made enquiries concerning his mode of
life among his fellow-countrymen on Nepenthe. The bibliographer, for
instance, would have informed them that Keith was "generally sick about
eleven"--meaning, by this playful nonsense, to insinuate that it was not
safe to disturb him till after that hour. Be that as it may, he was
certainly irritable before breakfast-time on every single day of the
year and, as it happened, irritable beyond the common measure on this
particular morning, because the downpour of the previous afternoon had
dashed to pieces--among other material damage--the tender blooms of
certain priceless ipomaeas. That alone was enough to infuriate an
archangel. Moreover, like everybody else--he always conformed to
custom--he had been slightly tipsy overnight.
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