"My nose informed me. My eyes affirm. Yours?"

"I am afraid so."

"My simple rule. In the vegetable garden you may smoke; here you may
not. Is it so hard to observe?"

"I quite forgot myself."

Mr. Marrapit cried: "Adjust that impression. You forgot me.
Consistently you forget me. My desires, my interests are nothing to
you."

"It's a rotten thing to make a fuss about."

"That is why I make a fuss. It _is_ a rotten thing. A disgusting and a
noisome thing. Bury it."

Into a bed of soft mould George struck a sullen heel; kicked the
tobacco towards the pit. Mr. Marrapit chanted over the obsequies: "I
provide you with the enormous expanse of my vegetable garden in which
to smoke. Yet upon my little acre you intrude. I am Naboth."

Ahab straightened his back; sighed heavily. Naboth started against the
prick of a sudden recollection:

"I had forgotten. Your examination?"

George half turned away. The bitterest moment of a sad day was come.