Sir Gilders Persimmon had shuffled over to Fosse, who was wetting his lips, eager to leap into the debate, when Myre’s yawing should give opportunity, and, button-holing the fussy little man, the deaf old gentleman asked him:
“You said, sir, that the reformed rake did what?”
“No, Sir Gilders—I said that the man who does not play whist is laying up a sad old age——”
The old gentleman poked him slyly in the lean ribs:
“Makes the best husband, eh! Indeed, yes—very likely—very likely. But it’s dangerous doctrine—it’s——”
“No, Sir Gilders,” shrieked the perspiring little man—“I say the man who does not play whist.” He coughed—his voice breaking. “Oh, damn this old gentleman!” he added, moving irritably away from him....
Quogge Myre turned to Pangbutt:
“Now, Pangbutt, mind you, I don’t say that this Anthony Bickersteth is a Balzac; but he has the true genius for literature. How can you define these things? It is there, or it is not there!”
Fosse skipped up to the group:
“What I say—what I say——”