“Ah, to be sure,” said Smithson; “about the cellar.”
“Yes,” continued Fullerton; “he said, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Landlord, go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the best French brandy.’”
“Ah, he’s a queer fellow, is doctor,” said Warton. “They won’t live down here when they’re married, will they?”
“Who?”
“Young Cyril Mallow and Joseph Portlock’s girl.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” said Tomlinson. “Young Cyril has got a post under government, and it’s settled that Miss Cynthia is to be married to Lord Artingale, and a house has been taken for young Cyril up in Kensington.”
“Hullo, old fox,” cried Fullerton.
“Yoicks, yoicks, yoicks, gone away,” shouted several, uproariously.
“Come, out with it,” said Fullerton. “I’ll be bound to say you know all about it.”
“Well,” said Tomlinson, with the calm reticence of one who felt himself quite at home in the matter, “I did hear a little about it.”