“Take a little more brandy, Mrs. Cheviot,” Carlyon said, picking up the glass again and wholly disregarding Francis’ remarks.
“Oh, I had rather not!” she begged.
“Yes, I dare say but it will do you good. Come!”
She lifted a wavering hand to take the glass and sipped a little, murmuring between sips, “I am sure my skull is cracked!”
“I am even more sure that it is not,” he replied. “You are feeling very dizzy and I dare say your head aches sadly, but it is only a bruise.”
“I might have guessed you would be odiously unfeeling.”
“Certainly you might, for you know I have not the least sensibility. Come, you are better already! You begin to talk more like yourself.”
“If my head did not swim so there is a deal I have stored up to say to you! You have used me abominably!”
“You shall tell me in what way I have done so presently,” he replied in a soothing tone.
“ I warned you that I should very likely be found murdered in my bed!”