'Has it always done him harm?' asked Vernon.
'Always; that is, lately.'
'Then why did you let him take so much—a whole bottle, sometimes two bottles—all to himself at dinner? I heard Rogers tell Mrs. Moggs about it.'
'Rogers ought not to have given him so much.'
'Oh! but Rogers said it wasn't his place to make remarks, only he was very sorry for poor Mrs. Wendover—that's you, you know—not Mrs. Wendover at Kingthorpe.'
'Oh, Vernie, you were not listening?'
'Of course not. I wasn't listening on purpose; but I was in the lobby outside the housekeeper's room, waiting for some grease for my shooting boots. I always grease them myself, you know, for nobody else does it properly; and Rogers said the brandy Mr. Wendover had drunk in three weeks would make Mrs. Moggs' hair stand on end; but it couldn't,—could it?—when she wears a front. A front couldn't stand on end,' said Vernon, exploding at his own small joke, which, like most of the witticisms of childhood, was founded on the physical deficiencies of age.
'Look, Vernie! there is going to be a lovely sunset,' said Ida, anxious to change the conversation.
But Vernon's inquiring mind was not satisfied.
'Is it wicked to drink champagne and brandy?' he asked.