suppose that such a little thing as a glass of punch would have put you
out of temper.'

'Out of temper! What the devil do you mean by that piece of
impertinence, Mr Kenwigs?' said the collector. 'Morleena, child--give me
my hat.'

'Oh, you're not going, Mr Lillyvick, sir,' interposed Miss Petowker,
with her most bewitching smile.

But still Mr Lillyvick, regardless of the siren, cried obdurately,
'Morleena, my hat!' upon the fourth repetition of which demand, Mrs
Kenwigs sunk back in her chair, with a cry that might have softened a
water-butt, not to say a water-collector; while the four little girls
(privately instructed to that effect) clasped their uncle's drab shorts
in their arms, and prayed him, in imperfect English, to remain.

'Why should I stop here, my dears?' said Mr Lillyvick; 'I'm not wanted
here.'

'Oh, do not speak so cruelly, uncle,' sobbed Mrs Kenwigs, 'unless you
wish to kill me.'

'I shouldn't wonder if some people were to say I did,' replied Mr
Lillyvick, glancing angrily at Kenwigs. 'Out of temper!'

'Oh! I cannot bear to see him look so, at my husband,' cried Mrs
Kenwigs. 'It's so dreadful in families. Oh!'

'Mr Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, 'I hope, for the sake of your niece, that