“His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, “his name is Hastings. He is a berry. He knows no more about the world,”⁠—and here Mr. Laffat’s face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that planet⁠—“than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll.”

Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch on the other edge of the study and said, “Ah!”