“Caroline, I do not think I deserve this unkindness. He is a collector of second-hand oddities. As a matter of fact, I only lent it.”
Caroline tried to keep back the tears:
“You are a ridiculous good fellow,” she said; “but you do exasperate me.... What on earth are you going to write upon?”
Lovegood looked relieved:
“I wrote for an hour in bed this morning,” he said. “It was an intellectual treat. I shall always compose the finer flights of my imagination in bed in future.”
Caroline laughed, with a sob in the laugh, and stroked the big fellow’s sleeve affectionately:
“No, Eustace—I cannot accept it, old friend.” She dashed the handkerchief to her eyes, and added airily: “Well, well—it’s really very serious—I shall have to wear shabby gowns again. Hush!”
She signed for silence.
They all listened.
There was a shuffling footstep on the landing, and a ridiculous and quavering attempt at a drinking song. The door was flung open and a man, giddy with strong liquors, lurched into the room.