“Thirty-seven—nine—six,” said Mayfair, as he held the document near a candle; “make it an even forty for the waiters, and it leaves five pounds a head, eh?—not too much, after all.”
“Well, I don't know; the asparagus was miserably small.”
“And I got no strawberries.”
“I have my doubts about that Moselle.”
“It ain't dear; at least, it's not dearer than anywhere else.”
While these criticisms were going forward, Tony perceived that each one in turn was throwing down his sovereigns on the table, as his contribution to the fund; and he approached Skeffington, to whisper that he had forgotten his purse,—his sole excuse to explain, what he would n't confess, that he believed he was an invited guest Skeff was, however, by this time so completely overcome by the last toast that he sat staring fatuously before him, and could only mutter, in a melancholy strain, “To be, or not to be; that's a question.”
“Can you lend me some money?” whispered Tony. “I if want your purse.”
“He—takes my purse—trash—trash—” mumbled out the other.
“I 'll book up for Skeffy,” said one of the guardsmen; “and now it's all right.”
“No,” said Tony, aloud; “I haven't paid. I left my purse behind, and I can't make Skeffington understand that I want a loan from him;” and he stooped down again and whispered in his ear.