“But, my dear, I—I—I’m pretty nearly starved; it’s poverty of blood, I’m sure.”
“Well, come and have a good lunch,” said the doctor. “I’ll see that you have nothing to disagree with you.”
“Thank you, doctor, thank you,” said the old gentleman, as the gong began to sound and they went down, Tryphie and Tom coming out of another room—Maude joining them, looking now quite composed.
“I remember when I was a boy,” said Lord Barmouth, suddenly.
“Yes, my love,” said her ladyship, stiffly; “but you’ve told us that before.”
“Have I, my dear?” said his lordship, looking troubled, and then there was a little pause.
“I may have a glass of hock, may I not, doctor?” said the old man, as the luncheon went on.
“Eh? Yes.—I say, what’s your name, bring me the hock, some seltzer and a glass,” said the doctor to Robbins. “Yes, my dear,” he continued to Tryphie, “I would rather any day go to the Tyrol than along the beaten track through the Alps.”
The butler brought the hock and seltzer, and a large tumbler, into which such a liberal portion of wine was poured that Lady Barmouth looked horrified, and the old gentleman chuckled and squeezed Maude’s hand under the table.
“Is not that too much, doctor?” whispered her ladyship.