“Help yourself, Mr. Sharp,” she said, pushing the bottle of port towards him.
Mr. Sharp complied, having first, after several refusals, put a little into the ladies' glasses, and a lot on the tablecloth near Mr. Culpepper. Then, after a satisfying sip or two, he rose with a bland smile and announced his intention of making a speech.
“But you've made one,” said his host, in tones of fierce expostulation.
“That—that was las' night,” said Mr. Sharp. “This is to-night—your birthday.”
“Well, we don't want any more,” said Mr. Culpepper.
Mr. Sharp hesitated. “It's only his fun,” he said, looking round and raising his glass. “He's afraid I'm going to praise him up—praise him up. Here's to my old friend, Mr. Culpepper: one of the best. We all have our—faults, and he has his—has his. Where was I?”
“Sit down,” growled Mr. Culpepper.
“Talking about my husband's faults,” said his wife.
“So I was,” said Mr. Sharp, putting his hand to his brow. “Don't be alarm',” he continued, turning to his host; “nothing to be alarm' about. I'm not going to talk about 'em. Not so silly as that, I hope. I don't want spoil your life.”
“Sit down,” repeated Mr. Culpepper.