The Colonel surveyed Morris critically with his eyeglass.
“Really, my dear Mary,” he replied, “I am not responsible for the variations in my son’s habit of body.” Then, as Morris turned away irritably, he added in a stage whisper, “He’s been a bit upset, poor fellow! He felt your father’s death dreadfully.”
Mary winced a little, then, recovering her vivacity, said:
“Well, at any rate, uncle, I am glad to see that nothing of the sort has affected your health; I never saw you looking better.”
“Ah! my dear, as we grow older we learn resignation——”
“And how to look after ourselves,” thought Mary.
At that moment dinner was announced, and she went in on Morris’s arm, the Colonel gallantly insisting that it should be so. After this things progressed a good deal better. The first plunge was over, and the cool refreshing waters of Mary’s conversation seemed to give back to Morris’s system some of the tone that it had lost. Also, when he thought fit to use it, he had a strong will, and he thought fit this night. Lastly, like many a man in a quandary before him, he discovered the strange advantages of a scientific but liberal absorption of champagne. Mary noticed this as she noticed everything, and said presently with her eyes wide open:
“Might I ask, my dear, if you are—ill? You are eating next to nothing, and that’s your fourth large glass of champagne—you who never drank more than two. Don’t you remember how it used to vex my poor dad, because he said that it always meant half a bottle wasted, and a temptation to the cook?”
Morris laughed—he was able to laugh by now—and replied, as it happened, with perfect truth, that he had an awful toothache.
“Then everything is explained,” said Mary. “Did you ever see me with a toothache? Well, I should advise you not, for it would be our last interview. I will paint it for you after dinner with pure carbolic acid; it’s splendid, that is if you don’t drop any on the patient’s tongue.”