"My poor, poor head, Mistah Petahs! That champagne last night brought everything back—dear George and all our happiness."
"Oh, I say," murmured Mr. Peters.
"I feel so ill, so terribly ill. What could I have? If this head doesn't get better I shall jump overboard, really I shall. And then the fishes will eat me!"
Mr. Peters contemplated the prospect hopefully.
"And—I keep thinking of my darlings," she whispered, reduced to tears.
"What you want, little lady, is a hair of the dog that bit you," said Mr. Peters judicially. She gave a gentle little scream.
"Oh you sound so fierce, Mistah Petahs! Which dog? When?" she asked guilelessly.
"I'll get it—you lie back, little lady, and rest your pretty head."
She lay back, with swimming eyes.
He went half a step along the alley-way.