possibilities, not only material and external, but psychological not only
touching what others might do or what might happen to them, but raising
also speculation as to what he might do, or what might happen to him at
his own hands; for example, how far he would flout authority, defy the
usual, and deny the accepted. The love of rebellion, of making foolish
the wisdom of the wise, of hampering the orderly and inexorable treatment
of people just as, according to the best modern lights, they ought to be
treated, this lawless love was strong in Beaumaroy. Not as a principle;
it was the stronger for being an instinct, a wayward instinct that might
carry him, he scarce knew where.

Mr. Saffron came back, greeted again by Beaumaroy's courtly bow and
Hooper's vaguely reminiscent but slovenly military salute. The pair sat
down to a homely beefsteak; but the golden tinted wine gurgled into their
glasses. But, before they fell to, there was a little incident. A sudden,
but fierce, anger seized old Mr. Saffron. In his harshest tones he rapped
out at the Sergeant, "My knife! You careless scoundrel, you haven't given
me my knife!"

Beaumaroy sprang to his feet with a muttered exclamation: "It's all my
fault, sir. I forgot to give it to Hooper. I always lock it up when I go
out." He went to a little oak sideboard and unlocked a drawer, then came
back to Mr. Saffron's side. "Here it is, and I humbly apologize."

"Very good! very good!" said the old man testily, as he took the
implement.

"Ain't anybody going to apologize to me?" asked Hooper, scowling.

"Oh, get out, Sergeant!" said Beaumaroy good-naturedly. "We can't bother