"Just another week then," said Mr. Kemp. "It's no good having money if I can't please myself."
"A week!" shouted Mr. Wright, almost beside himself with rage and dismay. "A week! Another week! Why, you told me——"
"Oh, don't listen to him," said Mrs. Bradshaw. "Croaker! It's his own business, ain't it? And he knows best, don't he? What's it got to do with you?"
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.