Ukridge's jaw dropped slightly. But he rallied swiftly.
"Idiot! That wasn't what she meant. Millie's an angel!"
"Of course she is," I said cordially. "She's a precious sight too good for you, you old rotter. You bear that fact steadily in mind, and we'll make something of you yet."
At this point Mrs. Ukridge joined us. She had been exploring the house, and noting the damage done. Her eyes were open to their fullest extent.
"Oh, Mr. Garnet, couldn't you have stopped them?"
I felt a worm. Had I done as much as I might have done to stem the tide?
"I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Ukridge," I said humbly. "I really don't think I could have done much more. We tried every method. Beale had seven fights, and I made a speech on the lawn, but it was all no good. Directly they had finished the whisky—"
Ukridge's cry was like that of a lost spirit.
"They didn't get hold of the whisky!"
"They did! It seemed to me that it would smooth things down a little if I served it out. The mob had begun to get a trifle out of hand."