“Thoughts,” said Mr. Sharp, exchanging a covert glance with Florrie.  “Something you told me the other day.”

Mr. Culpepper looked bewildered.  “I’ll give you a penny for them thoughts,” he said, with an air of jocosity.

Mr. Sharp shook his head.  “Money couldn’t buy ’em,” he said, with owlish solemnity, “espec—­especially after the good supper you’re giving me.”

“Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, uneasily, as his wife sat somewhat erect “Bert, it’s my birthday, and I don’t grudge nothing to nobody; but go easy with the beer.  You ain’t used to it, you know.”

“What’s the matter with the beer?” inquired Mr. Sharp.  “It tastes all right—­what there is of it.”

“It ain’t the beer; it’s you,” explained Mr. Culpepper.

Mr. Sharp stared at him.  “Have I said anything I oughtn’t to?” he inquired.

Mr. Culpepper shook his head, and, taking up a fork and spoon, began to serve a plum-pudding that Miss Garland had just placed on the table.

“What was it you said I was to be sure and not tell Mrs. Culpepper?” inquired Mr. Sharp, dreamily.  “I haven’t said that, have I?”

“No!” snapped the harassed Mr. Culpepper, laying down the fork and spoon and regarding him ferociously.  “I mean, there wasn’t anything.  I mean, I didn’t say so.  You’re raving.”

“If I did say it, I’m sorry,” persisted Mr. Sharp.  “I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

“You’re all right,” said Mr. Culpepper, trying, but in vain, to exchange a waggish glance with his wife.

“I didn’t say it?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

“No,” said Mr. Culpepper, still smiling in a wooden fashion.

“I mean the other thing?” said Mr. Sharp, in a thrilling whisper.

“Look here,” exclaimed the overwrought Mr. Culpepper; “why not eat your pudding, and leave off talking nonsense?  Nobody’s listening to you.”

“Speak for yourself,” said his wife, tartly.  “I like to hear Mr. Sharp talk.  What was it he told you not to tell me?”

Mr. Sharp eyed her mistily.  “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.