"No," said Mr. Culpepper, still smiling in a wooden fashion.

"I mean the other thing?" said Mr. Sharp, in a thrilling whisper.

"Look here," exclaimed the overwrought Mr. Culpepper; "why not eat your
pudding, and leave off talking nonsense? Nobody's listening to you."

"Speak for yourself," said his wife, tartly. "I like to hear Mr. Sharp
talk. What was it he told you not to tell me?"

Mr. Sharp eyed her mistily. "I--I can't tell you," he said, slowly.

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Culpepper, coaxingly.

"Because it--it would make your hair stand on end," said the industrious
Mr. Sharp.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Culpepper, sharply.

"He said it would," said Mr. Sharp, indicating his host with his spoon,
"and he ought--to know-- Who's that kicking me under the table?"

Mr. Culpepper, shivering with wrath and dread, struggled for speech.
"You'd better get home, Bert," he said at last. "You're not yourself.
There's nobody kicking you under the table. You don't know what you are
saying. You've been dreaming things. I never said anything of the
kind."

"Memory's gone," said Mr. Sharp, shaking his head at him. "Clean gone.
Don't you remember--"