So Sophy worked on the little collar for Bobby, and dreamed that she was sitting behind the grating of the Ladies' Gallery, in the House of Commons, to hear Cecil's maiden speech. She had just arrived at the pleasant moment when Mr. Gladstone, reinstated as premier, was listening, hand at ear, with unmistakable signs of surprised approval to the eloquence of his new supporter, when Cecil himself destroyed the vision. He let the heavy German book fall to the floor with a bang and said:
"What's on for this week in the way of society? Anything promising?"
"We've had lots of invitations, Cecil, but I've refused them, because you weren't feeling well."
"Hang it all! Why didn't you consult me before making such a holocaust as that? I'm feeling much more fit. Think I'd like to mix with pleasant fools for a time."
Sophy looked doubtful.
"Don't you think it's too soon, Cecil? You were awfully ill that night."
"Well, I didn't stay ill, did I?"
"N-no. You recovered wonderfully quickly. But it was that strong medicine that Gaynor gave you." She stopped stitching on the little collar, and looked at him earnestly. "Somehow, I am so afraid of your taking that medicine, Cecil."
"Rubbish!" he said curtly.