He fumbled in the oak dresser for the decanter, knocking over a number of glasses. Damned little port left⁠—somebody been at it. Best drink in the world⁠—port. Good, rich, generous stuff. Ah! That was good. One more glass. Then he would go out. Half-past eleven . Margery would be wandering down in a minute⁠—would think he was drunk. He wasn’t drunk⁠—head perfectly clear. Saw the whole thing now. Dramatic end⁠—drowned in sight of home⁠—national loss⁠—moonlight. No, there was no moon. Hell of a wind, though. A sou’wester⁠—he, he! Poor Margery, poor Muriel, poor John! They would miss him⁠—when he had gone. They would be sorry then. Good fellow, John. Good fellows⁠—all of them. But they didn’t appreciate him⁠—nobody did. Yes, Muriel did. A dear girl, Muriel. But no mind. He would like to say goodbye to Muriel. And Margery. But that wouldn’t do. Dear things, both of them. Drink their healths. The last glass. No more port. No more whisky. No cheese, no butter, no jam. Like the war. Ha, ha!