Then Mr. Priestley went downstairs.
The landlady watched him go, carrying as he did with him three-quarters of a pint of her elderberry wine, with a triumphant eye. She felt that she had done her duty, and not only as an anti-influenza specialist; she felt that this couple would be grateful to her the next morning, and not only because their noses would not be streaming. The landlady had brought seven children into the world in her time, and she was an expert in many things beside influenza.
In the traditional way she proceeded to put the bride to bed.
Going downstairs with that uneasy young woman’s wet clothes, she found the groom hovering nervously. With words of homely encouragement she sent him flying upstairs with cheeks as red as his lady’s night-gown.
Mr. Priestley was proving himself to be a man of singular resolution. There were few things in this world that he wanted to do less than turn the key on the inside of that bedroom door; yet he knew the key must be turned. He turned it.
From the centre of the pillow in the large bed a small face, framed in sheet, regarded him with ill-concealed alarm. Even the sight of Mr. Priestley swathed in his pink flannel and lace appeared to bring it no joy. Two round eyes followed his every movement, and as he advanced towards the bed the sheet that framed the face took on a tense appearance beside either cheek, as if two small hands were gripping it convulsively. The face did not speak, for the simple reason that its owner was totally incapable of uttering a word. It is very difficult to inaugurate a chatty conversation when your throat has gone quite dry and your tongue has apparently affixed itself irrevocably to the roof of your mouth.
Carrying his pink flannel with the dignity of a Roman in his toga, Mr. Priestley halted beside the bed and stared down into the silent face with a look that was almost grim. “And now, young woman,” he said, in a voice which matched his look only too well, “I want an explanation, if you please.”
Reader, have you ever drunk home-made elderberry wine? Not a pale imitation, I mean, but the real, genuine, honest article? Have you gone still further and imbibed a full three-quarters of a pint of it? For, if you have, there is no need for me to explain. However, in case your life has been empty and vain, I will point out that home-made elderberry wine (the real, honest stuff) does practically nothing for about a quarter of an hour. During that period it just sits and ruminates. Then it makes up for lost time.
Suddenly the sheet on either side of Laura’s face relaxed. She smiled. “Yes, I expect you do,” she agreed.
Mr. Priestley smiled too. “I certainly do.”