The young man looks as if he is surprised to be asked such a thing. Even in the patchy lamplight I can see he has a strikingly handsome face and dark, dark eyes. It occurs to me that I have seen him before, though I am unable to say when or where. When he speaks his voice is deep but gentle, almost hard to discern above the general din of what is going on around us. His slight accent suggests he is not a Londoner, but heralds from the north of the country.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We are doing our best to persuade him to come with us.”

Mangan increases the volume of his protestations.

“It seems your best is not sufficient.”

“I’m afraid he is a little the worse for wear,” says the young man.

“You are pointing out the obvious. Better you and your friends had not thought to come here with him in such a state.”

At this the man appears to bridle a little, though I cannot imagine anyone in the habit of using what Mr. Chow Li provides is in a position to defend extreme behavior, his own or anyone else’s. He is prevented from responding by being summoned by the red-haired woman, who demands his assistance in grappling with the artist as he staggers about. With a great deal of struggle and more noisy complaint from the drunkard, the party lurch and sway up the narrow alley. I watch them go, wondering, not for the first time, how apparently well-spoken and educated people come to find themselves prepared to stoop to such a condition. I also make a note to speak with this errant witch, discreetly, next time we meet in the coven. Such behavior is unacceptable.