"McCabe," says he, hoarse and husky, "I—I've done a dreadful thing!"
"Why, Dudley!" says I. "I can't believe it."
"But I have," says he, clawin' me on the shoulder. "Oh, I—I've disgraced myself!"
"How?" says I. "Called some German composer out of his right name, or what?"
"No, no!" says he. "I—I can't tell you."
"Eh?" says I, starin' puzzled. "Well, you'd better."
"True, I'm your guest," says he. "But—but I forgot myself."
"Ah, cheer up," says I. "Veronica's a good sport. She wouldn't mind if you let slip a cussword."
"Oh, you don't understand," says Dudley, wringin' his hands. "Really, I have done something awful!"
"Come, come!" says I. "Let's have it, then."