Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening,
for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five
minutes to the Thing in front of me.
"Mad as a hatter, poor devil--or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home."
Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice! The two men had overheard me
speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They were very
kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered that I was
extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered away to my hotel,
there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings' ten minutes late. I pleaded the
darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for my unlover-like
tardiness; and sat down.
The conversation had already become general; and under cover of it, I was
addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that at
the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describing, with
much broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that evening.
A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half an
hour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as
professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed.
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