“You must come down for part of the time,” smiled her daughter.
These expressions of sympathy so affected the Baron that he placed his hand on his brow and turned slightly away to conceal his emotion. At the same time Mr Bunker, with well-timed dramatic effect, sank wearily into a chair, and, laying his elbow on the back, hid his own face in his hand.
Their guests jumped to the most alarming conclusions, and looked from one to the other with great concern.
“Dear me!” said the Countess, “surely it isn’t so very serious, Mr Bunker; it isn’t infectious, is it?”
The unlucky Baron here made his first mistake: without waiting for his more diplomatic friend to reply, he answered hastily, “Ach, no, it is bot a cold.”
Lady Grillyer’s expression changed.
“A cold!” she said. “Dear me, that can’t be so very serious, Baron.”
“It is a bad cold,” said the Baron.
By this time the ladies’ eyes were growing more used to the dim light, and Mr Bunker could see that they were taking rapid stock of the garnishings.
“This, I suppose, is your cough-mixture,” said the Countess, examining the bottle.