"Headache?" said Uncle Chris, starting like a war-horse that has heard the bugle. "I don't know if I have ever mentioned it, but I used to suffer from headaches at one time. Extraordinarily severe headaches. I tried everything, until one day a man I knew recommended a thing called—don't know if you have ever heard of it...."
Mrs. Peagrim, in her rôle of ministering angel, was engrossed with her errand of mercy. She was holding the medicine-glass to Mr. Pilkington's lips, and the seed fell on stony ground.
"Drink this, dear," urged Mrs. Peagrim.
"Nervino," said Uncle Chris.
"There!" said Mrs. Peagrim. "That will make you feel much better. How well you always look, Major Selby!"
"And yet at one time," said Uncle Chris perseveringly, "I was a martyr...."
"I can't remember if I told you last night about the party. We are giving a little supper-dance to the company of Otie's play after the performance this evening. Of course you will come?"
Uncle Chris philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear of his audience. Other opportunities would occur.
"Delighted," he said. "Delighted."
"Quite a simple, Bohemian little affair," proceeded Mrs. Peagrim. "I thought it was only right to give the poor things a little treat after they have all worked so hard."