"Oliveritis—that's my diagnosis. He does go to bed sometimes, you know, when—well, when the world gets too hard for him, poor Godfrey!"
"Oh, I never heard of such a thing! It can't be that! Does he hate him as much as that?"
"He doesn't like him."
"Do you think that's why he's been so grumpy lately?"
"I suppose he'd say that was the liver attack coming on, but—well, I've told you!"
"But to go to bed!" Arthur chuckled again. "Well, I am jiggered!"
"You may be jiggered as much as you like—but must you go to London?"
"Does Bernadette know he's gone to bed?" Pursuing his own train of amused wonder, Arthur did not mark Judith's question, with its note of appeal.
"I told Barber to tell her. I didn't think I should look grave enough—or perhaps Bernadette either!"
"Why, would she tumble to its being—Oliveritis?"