"The marginal comments are in German, of course," said the old man quickly. "The thoroughness of German research is proverbial. Give me back the book, pray!" I noticed he was breathing very shortly.
Ada Weeks settled the question by wrenching the volume out of Pettigrew's hand and locking it into The Liberry.
"You can go!" she announced. "We only entertain gentlemen here."
Pettigrew took up his hat: Mould rose and did likewise. The rest of the company fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. It was a particularly unpleasant moment.
"Good-night, Mr. Baxter," said Pettigrew, moving towards the door, which Miss Weeks was obligingly holding wide open for him. "Sometimes I wonder," he sniggered, turning again, "whether you are quite as ripe a scholar as you would have some of the less educated people in this town believe."
"Ripe? He's over-ripe—rotten!" announced Mould confidently.
Mr. Baxter rose suddenly from his armchair.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you insult me in my own house. It is your privilege to do so. You are my guests—"
I thought it time to interfere. I crossed the room, gently lowered my old friend into his seat again, and turned to the company. They were all on their feet by this time.
"Now look here," I announced, in what I have always hoped is a breezy voice, "you people really must keep your debates academic. Here you are, all flying straight up in the air over some twopenny-ha'penny point of scholarship, and exciting one of my most valued patients"—I patted Baxter solemnly on the shoulder—"to an attack of insomnia! You mustn't do it, you know—especially just now!"