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 fellow presumes on my having in my desk round the corner, his dirty note of hand for a wretched sum payable on the occurrence of a certain event, which event can only be of my and my wife’s bringing about! This fellow, Fledgeby, presumes to be impertinent to me, Lammle. Give me your nose sir!”
“No! Stop! I beg your pardon,” said Fledgeby, with humility.
“What do you say, sir?” demanded Mr. Lammle, seeming too furious to understand.
“I beg your pardon,” repeated Fledgeby.
“Repeat your words louder, sir. The just indignation of a gentleman has sent the blood boiling to my head. I don’t hear you.”
“I say,” repeated Fledgeby, with laborious explanatory politeness, “I beg your pardon.”
Mr. Lammle paused. “As a man of honour,” said he, throwing himself into a chair, “I am disarmed.”
Mr. Fledgeby also took a chair, though less demonstratively, and by slow approaches removed his hand from his nose. Some natural