did you put carving-knife? Eh? Where's carving-knife?"

"No, no, Bert," said Mr. Culpepper, clutching at his sleeve. "I--I was
only joking. You--you ain't quite yourself, Bert."

"What?" demanded the other, rolling his eyes, and clenching his fists.

"I--I mean you've improved," said Mr. Culpepper, hurriedly. "Wonderful,
you have."

Mr. Sharp's countenance cleared a little. "Let's make a night of it," he
said. "Don't move, whatever you do."

[Illustration: He felt the large and clumsy hand of Mr. Butler take him
by the collar]

He closed the door and, putting the wine and a couple of glasses on the
mantelpiece, took a chair by Mr. Culpepper and prepared to spend the
evening. His instructions were too specific to be disregarded, and three
times he placed his arm about the waist of the frenzied Mr. Culpepper and
took him for a lumbering dance up and down the room. In the intervals
between dances he regaled him with interminable extracts from speeches
made at the debating society and recitations learned at school.
Suggestions relating to bed, thrown out by Mr. Culpepper from time to
time, were repelled with scorn. And twice, in deference to Mr. Sharp's
desires, he had to join in the chorus of a song.

Ten o'clock passed, and the hands of the clock crawled round to eleven.
The hour struck, and, as though in answer, the door opened and the
agreeable face of Florrie Garland appeared. Behind her, to the intense