He found her reclining, the picture of lassitude. “How good of you to come,” she drawled.
“What's the matter?” said he brusquely.
“I wish to cawnsult you about myself. I think if anybody can brighten me up, it is you. I feel such a languaw—such a want of spirit; and I get palaa, and that is not desiwable.”
He examined her tongue and the white of her eye, and told her, in his blunt way, she ate and drank too much.
“Excuse me, sir,” said she stiffly.
“I mean too often. Now, let's see. Cup of tea in bed, of a morning?”
“Yaas.”
“Dinner at two?”
“We call it luncheon.”
“Are you a ventriloquist?”