"D—n it, I wish you'd keep your hands to yourself!" ejaculated Mr. Wetherall, turning round, at last, and discovering a face as white as the handkerchief that was round his throat.
To Mr. Lyon, who had seen a good deal of the world and something of the indifferent part of it, this sudden ebullition of temper in a man usually so forbearing and patient of jests, combined with the altered hue of the complexion, was a trait de lumière.
"My dear Wetherall, you're not well," said his wife rising, and concluding that he had been hanging out of the window to breathe the air.
"I'm very well," replied the husband; "give me another cup of tea, as strong as you can."
"I'm sure you are not," said she, taking the cup and saucer from his hand, which were rattling against each other as he held them out. "Can't you eat your bread and butter?" said she.
"No," said he. "I'm thirsty, give me some more tea. I suppose it's time I was off," added he, as he tossed off the fourth cup.
"It is," replied Mr. Lyon, who had for the
