He took Mr. Kemp round the waist, and the laughing Bella and her mother each secured an arm.  An appeal to Mr. Wright to secure his legs passed unheeded.

“We don’t let you go till you promise,” said Mrs. Bradshaw.

Mr. Kemp smiled and shook his head.  “Promise?” said Bella.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Kemp; “p’r’aps—­”

“He must go back,” shouted the alarmed Mr. Wright.

“Let him speak for himself,” exclaimed Bella, indignantly.

“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.

Mrs. Bradshaw’s “Well!  Well!” seemed to sum up the general feeling; Mr. Kemp, shaking his head, eyed him with gentle reproach.

“Me and Mrs. Bradshaw are going to gave another evening out,” he said, quietly.  “I’ve only got a few more days, and I must make hay while the sun shines.”

To Mr. Wright the room seemed to revolve slowly on its axis, but, regaining his self-possession by a supreme effort, he took out his purse and produced the amount.  Mrs. Bradshaw, after a few feminine protestations, went upstairs to put her bonnet on.

“And you can go and fetch a hansom-cab, George, while she’s a-doing of it,” said Mr. Kemp.  “Pick out a good ’orse—­spotted-grey, if you can.”

Mr. Wright arose and, departing with a suddenness that was almost startling, exploded harmlessly in front of the barber’s, next door but one.  Then with lagging steps he went in search of the shabbiest cab and oldest horse he could find.

“Thankee, my boy,” said Mr. Kemp, bluffly, as he helped Mrs. Bradshaw in and stood with his foot on the step.  “By the way, you had better go back and lock my pocket-book up.  I left it on the washstand, and there’s best part of a thousand pounds in it.  You can take fifty for yourself to buy smokes with.”

There was a murmur of admiration, and Mr. Wright, with a frantic attempt to keep up appearances, tried to thank him, but in vain.  Long after the cab had rolled away he stood on the pavement trying to think out a position which was rapidly becoming unendurable.  Still keeping up appearances, he had to pretend to go home to look after the pocket-book, leaving the jubilant Mr. Hills to improve the shining hour with Miss Bradshaw.