These words of Jason’s, and the look that accompanied them, caused Wolf a discomfort that resembled the squeezing of a person’s tongue against a hidden gumboil. It was impossible for him to help endowing with glossy, outspread wings the unctuous morsel into which the poet just then dug his fork! He felt the blood pricking him under his cheekbones. He thought of Miss Gault. He began to suffer from that old, miserable sensation that his body was a lump of contemptible putrescence, on the top of which his consciousness floated. This was the sort of occasion when in former days he used to summon up his “mythology.” Well, that was all over now. He felt as disintegrated as the remnants on the poet’s plate. He was those remnants. Dorsetshire had eaten him up!