“It was during the French war that our soldiers made the discovery of this delectable drink, and it was they who carried the taste for it back to England, where, I admit, its flavour deteriorates. Climate probably, though there are some who maintain that Englishmen don’t know how to keep it.”
“Why did you come to see me?” Hebe asked the Hon. Member, bluntly.
She lit a fresh cigarette and dragged her negligée from the floor, knowing that Mr. Sullivan had not called upon her to discuss the virtues of various intoxicants. She suspected that the real object of his visit would be even less agreeable as a topic of conversation. Her feeling towards Mr. Sullivan could never be accurately described as blind adoration, but this morning she unqualifiedly hated him.
“Why did you come here at such an hour, Uncle Rufus? You know how I loathe to be disturbed early in the day. I’m never human till noon.”
“The artistic temperament is interesting in all its phases,” murmured Mr. Sullivan, suavely.
“Don’t be funny!”
“Nothing is further from my intention. With perfect gravity I assert that a woman is infinitely appealing to me in her gentler moods. Her fragility, her beautiful feminine weakness . . . She inspires me with overwhelming tenderness . . . And how doubly charming when her verve returns.” He smiled, reflectively, at the tip of his boots.
“Oh, drop that nonsense and tell me what brings you here!”
“Well, my dear Hebe, I must plead a stupid man’s irresistible desire to discuss a somewhat delicate situation—albeit of his own making—with the cleverest woman of his acquaintance.”
“Bosh!”