In came Mrs. Widdup. She was comely to the eye, fair, flustered, forty and foxy.
“Higgins is out, sir,” she said, with a smile suggestive of vibratory massage. “He went to post a letter. Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“It’s time for my aconite,” said old Mr. Coulson. “Drop it for me. The bottle’s there. Three drops. In water. D–––– that is, confound Higgins! There’s nobody in this house cares if I die here in this chair for want of attention.”
Mrs. Widdup sighed deeply.
“Don’t be saying that, sir,” she said. “There’s them that would care more than any one knows. Thirteen drops, you said, sir?”
“Three,” said old man Coulson.
He took his dose and then Mrs. Widdup’s hand. She blushed. Oh, yes, it can be done. Just hold your breath and compress the diaphragm.
“Mrs. Widdup,” said Mr. Coulson, “the springtime’s full upon us.”
“Ain’t that right?” said Mrs. Widdup. “The air’s real warm. And there’s bock-beer signs on every corner. And the park’s all yaller and pink and blue with flowers; and I have such shooting pains up my legs and body.”
“‘In the spring,’” quoted Mr. Coulson, curling his mustache, “‘a y–––– that is, a man’s—fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’”