Packy was not dancing. Nor was Mr Gedge. Mr Gedge had taken a turn or two earlier in the evening, but, chancing to trip over his feet and fall a little heavily against the bandstand, he had retired to a table on the edge of the arena and was now sitting there with a dark scowl on his face, regarding the revelers with every evidence of disapproval and dislike. He had, indeed, conceived a very deep-rooted loathing for his fellow-human beings. Spiritually, he was in the depths.
Much has been written against the practice of over-indulging in alcoholic stimulants: but to the thinking man the real objection to such over-indulgence must always be the fact that, beyond a certain point, the wine-cup ceases to stimulate and, indeed, depresses. The result, as Packy was shortly to discover, being that, with a companion well under the influence, you never know where you are. You start the evening gaily with a sunny-minded Jekyll, and suddenly and without any warning he turns on your hands into a brooding Hyde.
During dinner and for an hour or two after it, J. Wellington Gedge had had all the earmarks of one who on honeydew has fed and drunk the milk of Paradise. He had overflowed with amiablitity and good-will. A child could have played with him, and, what is more, he would probably have giving it a franc to buy sweets with. And Packy, having no reason to suppose that he was not still in this Cheeryble-like frame of mind, felt encouraged and optimistic.
That Mr Gedge's mood had changed completely and was now like something Schopenhauer might have had after a bad night, he did not begin to suspect.
---from Hot Water by P.G. Wodehouse.