The long winter passed. Spring came and in its turn gave way to summer. September drew 225 on apace. He went about with an ever increasing tendency to look at the wall calendar with a fixed stare when he should have been paying attention to the congratulations that came to him from the opposite side of the counter or showcase. His baby-blue eyes wore the mournful, distressed look of an offending dog; his once trim little moustache drooped over the corners of his mouth; his shoulders sagged and his feet shuffled as he walked.
“Harvey,” said Mrs. Davis, not more than a fortnight before the wedding day, “You look terribly peaked. You must perk up for the wedding.”
“I’m going into a decline,” he said, affecting a slight cough.
“You are going to decline!” she shrilled, in her high, querulous voice.
“I said ‘into,’ Minerva,” he explained, dully.
“I do believe I’m getting a bit deaf,” she said, pronouncing it “deef.”
“It will be mighty tough on you if I should suddenly go into quick consumption,” said he, somewhat hopefully. 226
“You mustn’t think of such a thing, dearie,” she protested.
“No,” said he, letting his shoulders sag again. “I suppose it’s no use.”