The morning after she had nearly driven over him he woke to find Leonard Dagle, his friend and fellow lodger, standing beside his bed and looking down at him with a grave smile on his intellectual face.
“Hallo!” said Jack, “the house on fire?”
“Not at present,” said Leonard, “though it would soon be if you lived in it alone. Why don’t you blow your candle out, and not chuck your slippers at it? How are you this morning?”
“How am I?” said Jack, staring. “How should I be? Quite well of course,” which was quite true, for Jack and the headache had not been introduced to each other.
“That’s all right,” said Leonard, with a smile. “Perhaps you remember last night’s tragic occurrence, then?”
Jack thought for a moment, then shook his head gravely.
“Len, I’m an idiot. I always was. It’s a good job idiocy isn’t catching or you’d have caught it of me long ago. I made a confounded idiot of myself last night. It was all Dalrymple and Hetley’s fault, and I wish they’d knock champagne off the club wine list. Did I take too much, Len?”
“What do you think?” said Leonard, grimly.
“I’m afraid I did. For the first time in my life, or nearly—but I didn’t touch a card, Len.”
“I knew you wouldn’t do that.”