"The young gentleman upstairs sent a message," said the maid. "Most particular he was that I give it exact. 'It being so rainy again,' he says, 'and there not being anything specially interesting on the—the docket as far as he knows, he'll stay in bed—thank you.'"
For an instant it seemed as though everybody at the table except Allan John jerked back from his plate with a knife, fork or spoon, brandished half-way in mid air. There was no jerk left in Allan John, I imagine. It was Allan John's color that changed. A dull flush of red where once just gray shadows had lain.
"So he'll stay in bed, thank you," repeated the maid sing- songishly.
"What?" gasped my Husband.
"W-w-what?" stammered the May Girl.
"Well—of all the—nerve!" muttered Paul Brenswick.
"Why—why how extraordinary," murmured Ann Woltor.
"There's your 'artistic temperament' for you, all right!" laughed the Bride a bit hectically. "Peeved is it because he thought Miss Davies——?"
"Don't you think you're just a bit behind the times in your interpretation of the phrase 'artistic temperament'?" interrupted George Keets abruptly. "Except in special neurasthenic cases it is no longer the fashion I believe to lay bad manners to the artistic temperament itself but rather to the humble environment from which most artistic temperaments are supposed to have sprung."
"Eh? What's that?" laughed the Bride.