"De Indians drank deir liberalism at your fountains," said Mr. Sita Ram, quoting from one of his own speeches in the Legislative Assembly. He pointed an accusing finger at Philip Quarles. The drops of sweat pursued one another down his brown and pouchy cheeks; he seemed to be weeping for Mother India. One drop had been hanging, an iridescent jewel in the lamplight, at the end of his nose. It flashed and trembled while he spoke, as if responsive to patriotic sentiments. There came a moment when the sentiments were too much for it. At the word "fountain," it gave a last violent shudder and fell among the broken morsels of fish on Mr. Sita Ram's plate.
"Burke and Bacon," Mr. Sita Ram went on sonorously, "Milton and Macaulay."
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