"Oh, shut up!" interposed the busy Pennoyer from a remote corner. "Who is going after the potato salad? That's what I want to know. Who is going?"
"Wrinkles," said Grief.
"There," said Pennoyer, coming forward and scanning a late work with an eye of satisfaction. "There's the three glasses and the little tumbler; and then, Grief, you will have to drink out of a mug."
"I'll be double-dyed black if I will!" cried Grief. "I wouldn't drink claret out of a mug to save my soul from being pinched!"
"You duffer, you talk like a bloomin' British chump on whom the sun never sets! What do you want?"
"Well, there's enough without that—what's the matter with you? Three glasses and the little tumbler."
"Yes, but if Billie Hawker comes——"
"Well, let him drink out of the mug, then. He——"
"No, he won't," said Florinda suddenly. "I'll take the mug myself."