“No, really? Splendid! I can’t see you very distinctly—how those Johnnies in the old days ever contrived to put up a scrap with things like this on their heads beats me—but you sound a good sort. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Marlowe. I’m sure we shall.”
“Eustace is one of the best.”
“How nice of you to say so.”
“All this,” interrupted Mrs. Hignett, who had been a chaffing auditor of this interchange of courtesies, “is beside the point. Why did you dance in the hall, Samuel, and play the orchestrion?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bennett, reminded of his grievance, “waking people up.”
“Scaring us all to death!” complained Mr. Mortimer.
“I remember you as a boy, Samuel,” said Mrs. Hignett, “lamentably lacking in consideration for others and concentrated only on your selfish pleasures. You seem to have altered very little.”
“Don’t ballyrag the poor man,” said Jane Hubbard. “Be human! Lend him a sardine opener!”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Hignett. “I never liked him and I dislike him now. He has got himself into this trouble through his own wrong-headedness.”