"You fool, you're drunk. We'll talk of this to-morrow. Good night, Mr. Lovely. By the way, who was the author of those graceful stanzas?"
"Oh! h——! Amor. Vernor—Vernon. Anon! Oh, h——!"
"What proof have you of this?"
"Proof, eh? what d'ye say—proof—ha-ha-ha! proof! Why the proof of the pudding's in the eating. Isn't that so? But I've found, I've found the author, and I'll walk with him in Curtain Mead—in Curtain Mead by moonlight, eh? and by the powers, you shall act for me."
"Sir, this flippancy is intolerable."
"Who's flippant—who's intol—erol—erable, sir? I say I'll pay him with six inches of smallsword."
"You forget my rules, Mr. Lovely."
"Rules? Rules? What's the good of rules? He has insulted me and her."
I think you will agree with me that Charles was drunk enough to be very undignified. Mr. Lovely Senior appeared again, maudlin and quarrelsome. The Beau, who remembered him, winced at the resemblance.
"This interview is very repugnant to my sense of decorum," he protested. "I beg you will take your leave, sir. The whole affair needs the elucidation of the morning; this candle is insufficient. Moreover, the hour is late; the fire is low; I make it a rule to be asleep by midnight whenever possible."