“Well,” said Laura, as if arriving at a decision, “I’m not. Never! If the people are all right, the circumstances can take care of themselves; that’s my creed.” With a sudden movement she thrust the key far down inside the bed and showed her empty hand. “Now, go and make yourself as comfy as you can on that sofa with both dressing-gowns and this eiderdown; and if you want to say anything to me, say: ‘It’s your own silly fault, my dear girl!’ Because it is, you know.”
Mr. Priestley jumped to his feet and stood for a moment, looking down at the flushed and ever so faintly mocking face. “No,” he said slowly, “I won’t say that. I’ll say: ‘You’re a very dear, sweet girl. But please give me that key.’”
Laura shook her head violently. “No! I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not going to alter it. Now, please run along to that sofa, because I want to go to sleep.”
Mr. Priestley saw she meant it, and his colour deepened. He turned towards the sofa without a word.
But the elderberry wine, in the intervals of combating influenza germs, had not performed its last miracle yet. With a swift movement Mr. Priestley turned about, darted back to the bed and kissed the astonished maiden in it unskilfully but heartily on her lips. Then he retired to his sofa.
Ten minutes later two rhythmical breathings filled the room, one only just audible, the other distinctly so. The elderberry wine had done its last job.
Chapter IX.
George Says Nothing, Much
Cynthia Nesbitt put the Sunday Courier down on the table, shrugged her shoulders despairingly and turned to her husband. “Guy, darling,” she said, “you don’t mind my telling you that you’re utterly and completely mad, do you?”
“Not in the least, dear,” Guy smiled. “I take it as a compliment. All really nice people are a little mad, you know.”
“Yes, but there are limits even to the nicest people’s madness. Guy, what is going to happen?”