“You're very anxious he should sit down,” said his wife, sharply.
“No, I'm not,” said Mr. Culpepper; “only he's talking nonsense.”
Mr. Sharp, still on his legs, took another sip of port and, avoiding the eye of Mr. Culpepper, which was showing signs of incipient inflammation, looked for encouragement to Miss Garland.
“He's a man we all look up to and respect,” he continued. “If he does go off to London every now and then on business, that's his lookout. My idea is he always ought to take Mrs. Culpepper with him.
“He'd have pleasure of her company and, same time, he'd be money in pocket by it. And why shouldn't she go to music-halls sometimes? Why shouldn't she—”
“You get off home,” said the purple Mr. Culpepper, rising and hammering the table with his fist. “Get off home; and if you so much as show your face inside this 'ouse again there'll be trouble. Go on. Out you go!”
“Home?” repeated Mr. Sharp, sitting down suddenly. “Won't go home till morning.”
“Oh, we'll soon see about that,” said Mr. Culpepper, taking him by the shoulders. “Come on, now.”
Mr. Sharp subsided lumpishly into his chair, and Mr. Culpepper, despite his utmost efforts, failed to move him. The two ladies exchanged a glance, and then, with their heads in the air, sailed out of the room, the younger pausing at the door to bestow a mirthful glance upon Mr. Sharp ere she disappeared.
“Come—out,” said Mr. Culpepper, panting.