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.
