"And—the others, sir?"
"Departed in the small hours, with your uncle George—and four of 'em in tears!"
"It was a dreadful night, sir."
"It was a night of nights, Peregrine. I remember only one to equal it."
"And that, sir?"
"Your father's coming of age. But talking of ghosts, Perry, I almost fancied I saw one—no longer ago than last night—on my way here. But then I don't believe in ghosts—and this one was seated in a closed carriage and accompanied by a rather handsome young woman—and she was weeping, I fancy. Your head aches, Nephew?"
"Damnably, Uncle Jervas. I hate wine!"
"Yet one must drink occasionally, boy."
"You can, sir," I groaned, "last night you honoured every toast—yet here you sit—"
"Looking like a ghost, Nephew."