“Eugene! You never told me!” Vivian said quickly. “Are you sure you’re all right? I thought you didn’t look quite so well today, but I put it down to the wretched night you had. Ingram, can’t you sit down? You’re screening all the warmth from Eugene!”
“Blast Eugene and his colds!” responded Ingram, without any particular ill-will. He removed himself to a chair beside Bart’s, and lowered himself into it, stretching his stiff leg out before him. “Hand over those splits, you young hog!”
“Eugene, I know you’re sitting in a draught,” Vivian said anxiously.
“Yes, darling, I imagine you might,” said Eugene, “since it is impossible to sit out of a draught in this room.”
“Somebody run and get our fragile pet a nice warm shawl,” suggested Bart. “Perhaps he’d like a foot-warmer as well?”
“No, dear little brother, he would not,” retorted Eugene, in no way discomposed by this heavy satire. “But I think if someone — you, for instance — were to move that screen a little, I, and possibly others as well (though that is not as important) should be much more comfortable.”
“Gosh, you have got a nerve!” ejaculated Bart. “I fancy I see myself!"
“I’ll do it!” Vivian said, setting down her cup-and-saucer, and laying hold of the screen in question, a massive, fourfold, ebony piece, with a peacock brilliantly inlaid upon it.
“Here, don’t be a fool, Vivian!” Bart said, hoisting himself out of his chair, and lounging over to her assistance. “You can’t move that! What a blooming pest you are, the pair of you! Where do you want the damned thing?”
"Just behind my chair,” directed Eugene. “Yes, that will do very well. I thought that I could make you move it, and you see that I was quite right.”