Hooke, very stormy-looking now, scraped most of the quicksilver into a funnel, and thence into a flask; departed; and was sighted by Mr. Pepys (peering through the Newtonian reflector) no more than a minute later, stalking off towards Hounsditch in the company of a whore. 'He's flown into one of his Fits of Melancholy – we won't see him for two weeks now – then we'll have to reprimand him,' Wilkins grumbled.