“My dear Dimmy,” she interrupted, “if you would only tell me where it hurts you, I might give you a pick-me-up or something to set you straight.”
“It is in your power,” said I.
“That’s all right,” said Grace cheerfully; “now let’s have it. If it’s a cold, it’s compo; if it’s sleeplessness, it’s potassium bromide; if it’s nerves, it’s rest; if it’s a strain, it’s Elliman.”
“It’s a strain,” said I.
“Good old strain!” said Grace. “Thought it must be a strain.”
“Of the heart!” said I.
“Next, please,” said Grace. “Whoever heard of a chap straining his heart? Why, Charlie, who lams ’em down like anything, has never strained his heart.”
“He has not my delicate organization, you see,” said I. “He’s as strong as a bullock, and just about as susceptible. I, my dear Grace, am much more delicately constituted. In fact, my dear Grace, in fact——” Emotion drowned, however, what was to have been a nicely rounded period.
Miss Grace sighed, set down her pencil for the second time, propped her chin on her hands, and said with almost tearful resignation, “What are you saying, Dimmy?”
I rose to my feet, for, after all, that was the better way, as in a sitting posture one was unable to obtain the fierce energy that this miserable business undoubtedly demanded. Therefore, springing to my feet, I said,—