"I--I can't tell you," he said, slowly.
"Why not?" asked Mrs. Culpepper, coaxingly.
"Because it--it would make your hair stand on end," said the industrious
Mr. Sharp.
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Culpepper, sharply.
"He said it would," said Mr. Sharp, indicating his host with his spoon,
"and he ought--to know-- Who's that kicking me under the table?"
Mr. Culpepper, shivering with wrath and dread, struggled for speech.
"You'd better get home, Bert," he said at last. "You're not yourself.
There's nobody kicking you under the table. You don't know what you are
saying. You've been dreaming things. I never said anything of the
kind."
"Memory's gone," said Mr. Sharp, shaking his head at him. "Clean gone.
Don't you remember--"
"NO!" roared Mr. Culpepper.
Mr. Sharp sat blinking at him, but his misgivings vanished before the
glances of admiring devotion which Miss Garland was sending in his
direction. He construed them rightly not only as a reward, but as an
incentive to further efforts. In the midst of an impressive silence Mrs.
Culpepper collected the plates and, producing a dish of fruit from the
sideboard, placed it upon the table.
"Help yourself, Mr. Sharp," she said, pushing the bottle of port towards
him.
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