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I hesitate to touch upon a topic of domestic bitterness； but candor
compels me to say that Roger's evening vigils invariably ended at the ice…
box。 There are two theories as to this subject of ice…box plundering； one of
the husband and the other of the wife。 Husbands are prone to think （in
their simplicity） that if they take a little of everything palatable they find
in the refrigerator； but thus distributing their forage over the viands the
general effect of the depradation will be almost unnoticeable。 Whereas
wives say （and Mrs。 Mifflin had often explained to Roger） that it is far
better to take all of any one dish than a little of each； for the latter course
is likely to diminish each item below the bulk at which it is still useful as a
left…over。 Roger； however； had the obstinate viciousness of all good
husbands； and he knew the delights of cold provender by heart。 Many a
stewed prune； many a mess of string beans or naked cold boiled potato；
many a chicken leg； half apple pie； or sector of rice pudding； had perished
in these midnight festivals。 He made it a point of honour never to eat quite
all of the dish in question； but would pass with unabated zest from one to
another。 This habit he had sternly repressed during the war； but Mrs。
Mifflin had noticed that since the armistice he had resumed it with hearty
violence。 This is a custom which causes the housewife to be confronted
the next morning with a tragical vista of pathetic scraps。 Two slices of
beet in a little earthenware cup； a sliver of apple pie one inch wide； three
prunes lowly nestling in a mere trickle of their own syrup； and a
tablespoonful of stewed rhubarb where had been one of those yellow
basins nearly fullwhat can the most resourceful kitcheneer do with these
oddments？ This atrocious practice cannot be too bitterly condemned。
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But we are what we are； and Roger was even more so。 The Anatomy
of Melancholy always made him hungry； and he dipped discreetly into
various vessels of refreshment； sharing a few scraps with Bock whose
pleading brown eye at these secret suppers always showed a comical
realization of their shameful and furtive nature。 Bock knew very well
that Roger had no business at the ice…box； for the larger outlines of social
law upon which every home depends are clearly understood by dogs。 But
Bock's face always showed his tremulous eagerness to participate in the
sin； and rather than have him stand by as a silent and damning critic；
Roger used to give him most of the cold potato。 The censure of a dog is
something no man can stand。 But I rove； as Burton would say。
After the ice…box； the cellar。 Like all true householders； Roger was
fond of his cellar。 It was something mouldy of smell； but it harboured a
well…stocked little bin of liquors； and the florid glow of the furnace mouth
upon the concrete floor was a great pleasure to the bookseller。 He loved
to peer in at the dancing flicker of small blue flames that played above the
ruddy mound of coals in the fireboxtenuous； airy little flames that were
as blue as violets and hovered up and down in the ascending gases。 Before
blackening the fire with a stoking of coal he pulled up a wooden
Bushmills box； turned off the electric bulb overhead； and sat there for a
final pipe； watching the rosy shine of the grate。 The tobacco smoke； drawn
inward by the hot inhaling fire； seemed dry and gray in the golden
brightness。 Bock； who had pattered down the steps after him； nosed and
snooped about the cellar。 Roger was thinking of Burton's words on the
immortal weed
Tobacco； divine； rare； superexcellent tobacco； which goes far beyond
all the panaceas； potable gold； and philosopher's stones； a sovereign
remedy to all diseases。 。 。 。 a virtuous herb； if it be well qualified；
opportunely taken； and medicinally used； but as it is commonly abused by
most men； which take it as tinkers do ale； 'tis a plague； a mischief； a
violent purger of goods； lands； health； hellish； devilish； and damned
tobacco； the ruin and overthrow of body and soul
Bock was standing on his hind legs； looking up at the front wall of
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the cellar； in which two small irongrated windows opened onto the sunken
area by the front door of the shop。 He gave a low growl； and seemed
uneasy。
〃What is it； Bock？〃 said Roger placidly； finishing his pipe。
Bock gave a short； sharp bark； with a curious note of protest in it。 But
Roger's mind was still with Burton。
〃Rats？〃 he said。 〃Aye； very likely！ This is Ratisbon； old man； but
don't bark about it。 Incident of the French Camp： ‘Smiling； the rat fell
dead。'〃
Bock paid no heed to this persiflage； but prowled the front end of the
cellar； looking upward in curious agitation。 He growled again； softly。
〃Shhh；〃 said Roger gently。 〃Never mind the rats； Bock。 Come on；
we'll stoke up the fire and go to bed。 Lord； it's one o'clock。〃
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Chapter XI
Titania Tries Reading in Bed
Aubrey； sitting at his window with the opera glasses； soon realized
that he was blind weary。 Even the exalted heroics of romance are not
proof against fatigue； most potent enemy of all who do and dream。 He had
had a long day； coming after the skull…smiting of the night before； it was
only the frosty air at the lifted sash that kept him at all awake。 He had
fallen into a half drowse when he heard footsteps coming down the
opposite side of the street。
He had forced himself awake several times before； to watch the
passage of some harmless strollers through the innocent blackness of the
Brooklyn night； but this time it was what he sought。 The man stepped