“You don’t use lemon in your business, do you?” asked Wegg, sniffing again.
“No, Mr. Wegg,” said Venus. “When I use it at all, I mostly use it in cobblers’ punch.”
“What do you call cobblers’ punch?” demanded Wegg, in a worse humour than before.
“It’s difficult to impart the receipt for it, sir,” returned Venus, “because, however particular you may be in allotting your materials, so much will still depend upon the individual gifts, and there being a feeling thrown into it. But the groundwork is gin.”
“In a Dutch bottle?” said Wegg gloomily, as he sat himself down.
“Very good, sir, very good!” cried Venus. “Will you partake, sir?”
“Will I partake?” returned Wegg very surlily. “Why, of course I will! Will a man partake, as has been tormented out of his five senses by an everlasting dustman with his head tied up! Will he, too! As if he wouldn’t!”
“Don’t let it put you out, Mr. Wegg. You don’t seem in your usual spirits.”
“If you come to that, you don’t seem in your usual spirits,” growled Wegg. “You seem to be setting up for lively.”
This circumstance appeared, in his then state of mind, to give Mr. Wegg uncommon offence.
“And you’ve been having your hair cut!” said Wegg, missing the usual dusty shock.
“Yes, Mr. Wegg. But don’t let that put you out, either.”