"News—did you say? No—I have received no news. None whatever."
"Then what ails you? I shall call Eglah."
She turned, but he clutched her skirt.
"For God's sake, don't ever tell her! Why grieve the child? The truth is—" He caught his breath, and a sickly smile showed how his mouth trembled, as he swept his hand across his brow.
"You are sick?"
"Oh, yes—sick; that is it exactly. Sick—sick indeed. Some oysters I ate, and cheese; later I very foolishly drank ale."
"Then, sir, you must go to bed, and Eglah will send an explanation of your unavoidable absence from the dinner."
Upstairs a door was opened, and a sweet, girlish voice trilled two bars of a Venetian barcarolle.
Judge Kent threw out his arms appealingly.
"I must go to-night. For God's sake, don't let her know anything! Say nothing. I shall tell her I was a little faint from indigestion. Vile compound—oysters, ale, Roquefort! Promise me to hold your tongue; not for my sake, but hers. I am obliged to attend this dinner, and it would spoil her evening if she knew how deadly sick—I—really was a moment ago. Promise me."