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The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side

of the drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own

paper-bestrewn table proper, on the other side of it, with the

bottles and glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the

drinking-table without stint, but each in a different way; the

lion for the most part reclining with his hands in his waistband,

looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some lighter

document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face, so deep

in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he

stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a

minute or more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or

three times, the matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal

found it imperative on him to get up, and steep his towels anew.

From these pilgrimages to the jug and basin, he returned with

such eccentricities of damp headgear as no words can describe;

which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious gravity.