“I am also enormously hungry,” said George with a laugh. “Is there any cause or reason in the nature of the cook or of anything else why you and I should not be fed?”
“To tell the truth, I had a little surprise for you,” answered his father. “I thought we ought to do something to commemorate the event, so I went out and got a brace of canvas-backs from Delmonico’s and a bottle of good wine. Kate is roasting the ducks and the champagne is on the ice. It was a little late when I got back—sorry to keep you waiting, my boy.”
“Sorry!” cried George. “The idea of being sorry for anything when there are canvas-backs and champagne in the house. You dear old man! I will pay you for this, though. You shall live on the fat of the land for the rest of your days!”
“Enough is as good as a feast,” observed Jonah Wood with great gravity.
“What roaring feasts we will have—or what stupendously plentiful enoughs, if you like it better! Father, you are better already. I heard you laugh to-day as you used to laugh when I was a boy.”
“A little prosperity will do us both good,” said the old gentleman, who was rapidly warming into geniality.
“I say,” suggested George. “I have finished my book, and you have nothing to do. Let us pack up our traps and go to Paris and paint the town a vivid scarlet.”
“What?” asked Jonah Wood, to whom slang had always been a mystery.
“Paint the town red,” repeated George. “In short, have a spree, a lark, a jollification, you and I.”
“I would like to see Paris again, well enough, if that is what you mean. By the way, George, your heart does not seem to trouble you much, just at present.”