"Last day of the old life, George," he observed, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "Let's go and have a drink, to . . . celebrate it. Thank God that, for the moment at any rate, we are in England!"
If I needed a stimulant, how much more did he?
We had two whiskies each, partly recovered our composure, and then went home.
There Gran'pa sank into his chair with a sigh and called Molly over to him.
"A little kiss, Mollikins," he said. "That's better. . . ."
And then:
"I'm tired out, George; and I've no appetite for dinner. I think I'll have a basin of bread and milk and go straight to bed. That medical examination has rather unnerved me."
"Oh, you mustn't think about it. You'll be all right after a night's rest."
"It isn't the . . . job itself. It's the thought that perhaps . . ." He pulled himself together. "Molly! A bowl of nice hot bread and milk—made by your own hands."
Molly—who could never be accused of being merely ornamental—adjourned to the kitchen, and presently returned with Gran'pa's last supper under the old régime.