Summerson, who was very tall and excessively dignified, gave a comic squirm. Then his eyelids fluttered and with the tips of his lips he murmured, "Better," as he glided along.
"Pooh," said Dalrymple to himself. "Getting touchy, I suppose, in his old age. How longevity disagrees with some of us mortals."
He nearly always took a bottle of seltzer before breakfast, and this morning old Andrew (a servant who had been in the club many years) poured it out for him.
"I hope you're all right again this mornin', sorr," said Andrew with his Celtic accent and in an affable half whisper.
"All right, Andrew," was the reply. "Why, you must be thinking of some one else. I haven't been ill. My health has been excellent for a long time past."
"Yes, sorr," said Andrew, lowering his eyes and respectfully retiring.
That last "Yes, sorr," had a dubious note about its delivery that almost made Dalrymple call the faithful old fellow back and further question him. "All right again?" As if he had ever been all wrong! Oh, well, poor Andrew was ageing; others had remarked that fact months ago.
A different servant came to announce breakfast. There were only about five men in the dining-room as Dalrymple entered it. All of them gazed at him in an unusual way, or had late events led him to think that they did so? At the table nearest him sat Everdell, one of the jolliest men in the club, a person whose face was nearly always wreathed in smiles.
"Good-morning!" said Dalrymple, as he caught Everdell's eye!
"Good-morning!" The tones were replete with mild consternation, and the look that went with them was smileless to the degree of actual gloom. Then Everdell, who had just finished his breakfast, rose and drew near to Dalrymple.