Mr. Johnson at large: “Ain’t the beer up! It’s the ’eated room.”

Bessie: “Scuse me, sir, passing so soon again, but—” Rest inaudible. Mr. Polly, accommodating himself: “Urr-oo! Right? Right O.”

The knives and forks, probably by some secret common agreement, clash and clatter together and drown every other sound.

“Nobody ’ad the least idea ’ow ’E died,—nobody.... Willie, don’t golp so. You ain’t in a ’urry, are you? You don’t want to ketch a train or anything,—golping like that!”

“D’you remember, Grace, ’ow one day we ’ad writing lesson....”

“Nicer girls no one ever ’ad—though I say it who shouldn’t.”

Mrs. Johnson in a shrill clear hospitable voice: “Harold, won’t Mrs. Larkins ’ave a teeny bit more fowl?”

Mr. Polly rising to the situation. “Or some brawn, Mrs. Larkins?” Catching Uncle Pentstemon’s eye: “Can’t send you some brawn, sir?”

“Elfrid!”

Loud hiccup from Uncle Pentstemon, momentary consternation followed by giggle from Annie.

The narration at Mr. Polly’s elbow pursued a quiet but relentless course. “Directly the new doctor came in he said: ’Everything must be took out and put in spirits—everything.’”

Willie,—audible ingurgitation.