Instantly he thought of the Duchess.

With his usual formula "'Scuse me; I'm a married man, y'know," he hurried out of the bar in search of his little present.
It was nine o'clock, and the Duchess would be waiting for him with his tea since six.

And always when he stopped at the "Angel" on his way home, he tried to soften her icy looks with a little present.
Sometimes it was a bunch of grapes that he crushed to a pulp by rolling on them; sometimes a dozen apples that he spilt out of the bag, and recovered from the gutter with lurching steps.

But tonight he happened to stop in front of the fish shop, and a lobster caught his eye.

The beer had quickened the poetry in his soul, and the sight of this fortified inhabitant of the deep pleased him like a gorgeous sunset.
He shuffled back to the Angel with the lobster under his arm, wrapped in a piece of paper.
One more drink and he would go home.