"Well, we've finished the bottle," he said brightly. "Suppose we go out for a walk."
"No--no walk," returned Nestley, with an imbecile grin. "You've stood me a bottle. Now it's my turn."
"I don't want any more," said Beaumont indifferently, "and I think you've had enough also."
"I haven't," retorted Nestley defiantly. "I'm as straight as a die. I suppose you won't drink with me?"
"Oh yes, I will, if you insist upon it."
"I do insist," cried the doctor, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang. "You must drink to show there is no ill-will. We were once friends, Basil."
"And are so still, I trust," said the artist, cordially.
"Your hand," said Nestley, with an outburst of maudlin affection. "Give me your hand."
Beaumont suffered his hand to be shaken violently by the doctor, and then that gentleman, now in a hilarious state of excitement, walked to the bell, ringing it with unnecessary violence.
Margery appeared in answer, and seemed somewhat astonished at Nestley's state, as he had always been so reserved and quiet in his demeanour.