"That's because his drummer is on the sick list. I hear he's a regular roarer—Rupert Trevelle, who hustled Balfour into the Blue Ensign Club. He was to have been here, but he's down with neuritis or something. They say that's why we're all drifting about the Adriatic doing nothing but patting each other's back. It will be different when Trevelle gets going."
"Then set him going right quick. Does Miss Silvester take to it kindly? Is she dead earnest?"
"That's just what I want to know. I'll tell you what, though—she won't be when she's married to me. No peace at any price in my house, I'm d——d if there is."
"Don't believe in it, eh?"
"Does any good Britisher really believe in it? Wars made us what we are. Would Nelson have gone to a law court? And what price would Drake receive in a county court action for singeing the Spanish King's beard? I tell you it's all d——d nonsense, and some of 'em must know it to be so. When I am married to Gabrielle——But here she comes, my boy, so mum's the word. There's time enough for arguments—eh, what?"
Faber smiled and stood up to get another chair. Gabrielle was very serious, and looked gracious in her perplexity. She had a strange tale to tell of her patient, and recited it in a kind of astonished despair which amused her host very much.
"Do you know," she exclaimed, "the child drinks wine like an alderman. Whatever am I to do?"
"What?" cried Harry. "You're rotting, Gabrielle, you're not serious."
"It's true, every word of it. She says that she is doing it by your orders, Mr. Faber. Is it really so?"
"How much has she taken? I sent a bottle down. It's only the light stuff they drink hereabouts. You can hardly call it wine."