“She can't very well say anything else,” Charles pointed out. “I was her host.”
“I don't suppose that would stop her. Have some gin!” said Miss Patterdale, supporting the character given her by her niece. “You'd better mix it yourself: I bought the things the man said people put in gin. I hope they're all right.”
Charles grinned, surveying the array of bottles set forth on the Welsh dresser. “Something for every taste. You have been going it, Aunt Miriam! Let's experiment!”
“What on earth is it?” asked Abby, presently receiving a glass from him, and cautiously sipping its contents.
“The discovery of the age. And a glass of nice, moderately pure orangeade for Aunt Miriam,” Charles said, putting a glass into Miss Patterdale's hand, and disposing his large person on the sofa beside her.
“You haven't put anything in it, have you?” said Miss Patterdale suspiciously.
“Of course I haven't! What do you take me for?”
Miss Patterdale regarded him with grim affection. “I'm not at all sure. You were one of the naughtiest little boys I ever encountered: that I do know!”
“That was before I came under your influence. Best of my Aunts.”
“Get along with you! Who was at your party? Besides Thaddeus Drybeck, and the Major! I know they were there.”