“Indeed.”
“Yes, but she's pretty well otherwise. How are you?” this last, desperately.
“Oh, thanks, I'm quite well,” Mrs. Edwards replied, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows. Somehow he felt that he ought not to have asked that, and then he made another desperate resolution to go home.
“I think they'll be looking for me at home,” he said, tentatively rising halfway from his chair. “Father isn't well, you see.” He had a vague feeling that he could not go unless they formally admitted the adequacy of his excuse.
At that moment there came the noise of an axe from the green, with shouts.
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Edwards of her husband, who entered from the store at that moment.
“The rascals—that is—” he corrected himself with a glance at Perez, “the men are chopping down the whippingpost to put on the bonfire. You were not thinking of going so soon, Captain Hamlin?” he added with evident concern.
“Yes, I think I will go,” said Perez, straightening up and assuming a resolute air.
“I beg you will not be so hasty,” said Mrs. Edwards, taking her husband's cue, and Perez abjectly sat down again.
“You must partake of my hospitality,” said Edwards. “Jonathan, draw a decanter of that old Jamaica. Desire, bring us tumblers.”