She patted Mr. Kemp's hand; Mr. Kemp patted back, and with his disengaged hand helped himself to a glass of beer—the fourth—and beamed in a friendly fashion upon the company.
“George!” he said, suddenly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Wright, in a harsh voice.
“Did you think to bring my pocket-book along with you?”
“No,” said Mr. Wright, sharply; “I didn't.”
“Tt-tt,” said the old man, with a gesture of annoyance. “Well, lend me a couple of pounds, then, or else run back and fetch my pocket-book,” he added, with a sly grin.
Mr. Wright's face worked with impotent fury. “What—what—do you—want it for?” he gasped.
Mrs. Bradshaw's “Well! Well!” seemed to sum up the general feeling; Mr. Kemp, shaking his head, eyed him with gentle reproach.
“Me and Mrs. Bradshaw are going to gave another evening out,” he said, quietly. “I've only got a few more days, and I must make hay while the sun shines.”
To Mr. Wright the room seemed to revolve slowly on its axis, but, regaining his self-possession by a supreme effort, he took out his purse and produced the amount. Mrs. Bradshaw, after a few feminine protestations, went upstairs to put her bonnet on.