At present our company consisted of Juno; a middle-class Englishman employed in some business capacity in town; a pair of very young honeymooners from the “up-country”; a Louisiana poetess, who wore the long, cylindrical ringlets of 1830, and who was attending a convention the Daughters of Dixie; two or three males and females, best described as et ceteras; and myself. “I shall only take a mouthful for the sake of nourishment,” Juno was announcing, “and then I shall return to his bedside.”
“Is he very suffering?” inquired the poetess, in melodious accent.
“It was an infamous onslaught,” Juno replied.
The poetess threw up her eyes and crooned, “Noble, doughty champion!”
“You may say so indeed, madam,” said Juno.
“Raw beefsteak’s jolly good for your eye,” observed the Briton.
This suggestion did not appear to be heard by Juno.
“I had a row with a chap,” the Briton continued. He’s my best friend now. He made me put raw beefsteak—”
“I thank you,” interrupted Juno. “He requires no beefsteak, raw or cooked.”
The face of the Briton reddened. “Too groggy to eat, is he?”