“Eh? Much? oh no. Do him good,” said the doctor, filling up the glass with seltzer. “There, take that to his lordship.”
“I say, father,” said Tom, giving her ladyship a mocking smile, “I watched the quantities. I’ll mix your hock for you in future.”
The luncheon went on, the doctor chatting merrily, while his lordship became, under the influence of so strong a dose of medicine, quite garrulous.
“I say, doctor,” he said, chuckling, “did—did you hear that deuced good story about Lady Grace Moray?”
“No,” said the doctor; “what was it?”
“Capital story, and quite true—he he, he!” chuckled the old gentleman. “She—she—she—begad, she was disappointed of one fellow, and—and—and, damme if she didn’t run off with the butler.”
“Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, austerely, “I am glad that the servants are not in the room.”
“It’s—it’s—it’s a fact, my dear,” said the old gentleman, wiping his eyes. “Bolted with him, she did, and—and—and, damme, I forget how it all ended. I say, Tom, my boy, how—how—how the doose did that affair end?”
“Got married and made a fool of herself,” said Tom sharply.
“Do people always make fools of themselves who marry, Tom?” said Tryphie in a low voice.