'The last was turpentine, and even your brewing didn't make good punch of it.' 'You would hardly suspect, Goldmore, that my wife, a Harley Baker, would ever make gin-punch?
I think my mother-in-law would commit suicide if she saw her.' 'Don't be always laughing at mamma, Raymond,' says Mrs.Gray.
'Well, well, she wouldn't die, and I DON'T wish she would.

And you don't make gin-punch, and you don't like it either and--Goldmore do you drink your beer out of the glass, or out of the pewter ?' 'Gracious mercy!' ejaculates Croesus once more, as little Polly, taking the pot with both her little bunches of hands, offers it, smiling, to that astonished Director.
And so, in a word, the dinner commenced, and was presently ended in a similar fashion.

Gray pursued his unfortunate guest with the most queer and outrageous description of his struggles, misery, and poverty.

He described how he cleaned the knives when they were first married; and how he used to drag the children in a little cart; how his wife could toss pancakes; and what parts of his dress she made.

He told Tibbits, his clerk (who was in fact the functionary who had brought the beer from the public-house, which Mrs.Fanny had fetched from the neighbouring apartment)--to fetch 'the bottle of port-wine,' when the dinner was over; and told Goldmore as wonderful a history about the way in which that bottle of wine had come into his hands as any of his former stories had been.