The other smiled (an ugly smile), and tapped one tap upon his nose.

“My late governor made a mess of it,” said Fledgeby. “But Geor—is the right name Georgina or Georgiana?”

“Georgiana.”

“I was thinking yesterday, I didn’t know there was such a name. I thought it must end in ina.”

“Why?”

“Why, you play — if you can — the Concertina, you know,” replied Fledgeby, meditating very slowly. “And you have — when you catch it — the Scarlatina. And you can come down from a balloon in a parach—no you can’t though. Well, say Georgeute — I mean Georgiana.”

“You were going to remark of Georgiana —?” Lammle moodily hinted, after waiting in vain.

“I was going to remark of Georgiana, sir,” said Fledgeby, not at all pleased to be reminded of his having forgotten it, “that she don’t seem to be violent. Don’t seem to be of the pitching-in order.”

“She has the gentleness of the dove, Mr Fledgeby.”

“Of course you’ll say so,” replied Fledgeby, sharpening, the moment his interest was touched by another. “But you know, the real look-out is this:— what I say, not what you say. I say — having my late governor and my late mother in my eye — that Georgiana don’t seem to be of the pitching-in order.”

The respected Mr Lammle was a bully, by nature and by usual practice. Perceiving, as Fledgeby’s affronts cumulated, that conciliation by no means answered the purpose here, he now directed a scowling look into Fledgeby’s small eyes for the effect of the opposite treatment. Satisfied by what he saw there, he burst into a violent passion and struck his hand upon the table, making the china ring and dance.

“You are a very offensive fellow, sir,” cried Mr Lammle, rising. “You are a highly offensive scoundrel. What do you mean by this behaviour?”

“I say!” remonstrated Fledgeby. “Don’t break out.”

“You are a very offensive fellow sir,” repeated Mr Lammle. “You are a highly offensive scoundrel!”

“I say, you know!” urged Fledgeby, quailing.

“Why, you coarse and vulgar vagabond!” said Mr Lammle, looking fiercely about him, “if your servant was here to give me sixpence of your money to get my boots cleaned afterwards — for you are not worth the expenditure — I’d kick you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” pleaded Fledgeby. “I am sure you’d think better of it.”

“I tell you what, Mr Fledgeby,” said Lammle advancing on him. “Since you presume to contradict me, I’ll assert myself a little. Give me your nose!”

Fledgeby covered it with his hand instead, and said, retreating, “I beg you won’t!”

“Give me your nose, sir,” repeated Lammle.

Still covering that feature and backing, Mr Fledgeby reiterated (apparently with a severe cold in his head), “I beg, I beg, you won’t.”

“And this fellow,” exclaimed Lammle, stopping and making the most of his chest — “This fellow presumes on my having selected him out of all the young fellows I know, for an advantageous opportunity! This