The novelist bowed in mock gallantry--a movement which made his ungainly form appear more grotesque than ever. "Indeed, madam, to my humble eyes, you are most beautifully and fittingly--ah--hooked up." He turned toward the invalid. "And how is the fortunate husband of the charming Mrs. Taine to-day?"
"Fine, Lagrange, fine," said the man--a cough interrupting his words. "Really, I think that Gertrude is unduly alarmed about my condition. In this glorious climate, I feel like a three-year-old."
"You are looking quite like yourself," returned the novelist.
"There's nothing at all the matter with me but a slight bronchial trouble," continued the other, coughing again. Then, to his wife--"Dearest, won't you ring, please; I'm sure it's time for my toddy; perhaps Mr. Lagrange will join me in a drink. What'll it be, Lagrange?"
"Nothing, thanks, at this hour."
"No? But you'll pardon me, I'm sure--Doctor's orders you know."
A servant appeared. Mrs. Taine took the glass and carried it to her husband with her own hand, saying with tender solicitude, "Don't you think, dear, that you should lie down for a while? Mr. Lagrange will remain for dinner, you know. You must not tire yourself. I'm sure he will excuse you. I'll manage somehow to amuse him until Jim and Louise return."
"I believe I will rest a little, Gertrude." He turned to the guest--"While there is nothing really wrong, you know, Lagrange, still it's best to be on the safe side."
"By all means," said the novelist, heartily. "You should take care of yourself. Don't, I beg, permit me to detain you."
Mrs. Taine, with careful tenderness, accompanied her husband to the door. When he had passed from the room, she faced the novelist, with--"Don't you think Edward is really very much worse, Mr. Lagrange? I keep up appearances, you know, but--" she paused with a charming air of perplexed and worried anxiety.