“Yes, my boy, I will. But, by the way, have you noticed anything particular about Maudey?”
“Looks precious miserable.”
“Yes, my boy, she does; but I mean about her standing out in the balcony so much of an evening. You don’t think—”
“Think what, gov’nor?”
“It’s—it’s—it’s a devil of a way down into the area, Tom; and if she were—”
“To jump over and kill herself? Pooh! nonsense, old fellow. Here, come up to my room.”
“I’m—I’m glad to hear you speak with so much confidence,” said Lord Barmouth. “Yes, certainly, my boy, certainly. Dear me, I feel very faint.”
Tom took his father’s arm, and led the way to his bedroom, where he placed an easy-chair for the old man, and then stooping down, drew a case from beneath the bed and a glass or two from a cupboard.
“Why, Tom, my boy—wine?”
“Yes, gov’nor, wine. Fizz. Pfungst’s dry fruity.”