"Not piety," corrected my brother-in-law. "Drink. I remember you had some very bad goes about then."
"What a terrible memory you have!" said Adèle. "I feel quite uneasy."
"Fear not, sweet one," was the reply. "Before I retail your indiscretions I shall send you a list of them, with the price of omission clearly marked against each in red ink. The writing will be all blurred with my tears." Here Adèle declined a second vegetable. "There, now. I've gone and frightened you. And marrow's wonderful for the spine. Affords instant relief. And you needn't eat the seeds. Spit them over your left shoulder. That'll bring you luck."
There was an outraged clamour of feminine protest.
"I won't have it," said Daphne. "Disgusting brute!"
"And that," said Jonah, "is the sodden mountebank who dares to cast a stone into the limpid pool of my character. That is the overfed sluggard——"
"Take this down, somebody," said Berry. "The words'll scorch up the paper, but never mind. Record the blasphemy. Capital 'M' for 'mountebank.' 'Sluggard' with an 'H.' And I'm not overfed."
"You're getting fatter every day," said Jill, gurgling.
"That's right," said my brother-in-law. "Bay the old lion. And bring down these grey hairs in——"
"Talking of mountebanks," said I, "who's going to Fallow Hill Fair?"