"Why, the influenza—the bacilli, or whatever they are. Or do the bacilli take you?"
"My dear lady, you don't know what you're talking about. The bacilli theory is—is—is a silly theory."
And Durant actually smiled; for his own brain was softening under the debilitating influence. He would not be surprised at anything he might do himself; he might even sink into that sickly state in which people see puns in everything and everything in puns; it would be the effect of the place.
"Well, it made you very ill last winter, that's all I know."
The wrinkles stopped dancing over the Colonel's face; his shirt-front sank; he was touched with an infinite tenderness and pity for himself.
"Yes. But I had a fit of the real thing. It left me without a particle of muscle—legs mere thread-papers, and no brain——"
"Cherry-tart, Mr. Durant?"
The voice was Miss Tancred's. It was keen, incisive; it cut the Colonel's sentence like a knife. But if she had meant to kill it the unfilial attempt was foiled.
"No brain at all, Durant." He held up a forefinger, demonstrating on the empty air. "That, mind you, is the test, the mark of true influenza—the ut-ter, absolute collapse of brain power."
"Imbacillity, in short."