“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Webster, “but luncheon will be served within the next few minutes. Possibly you may wish to make some change of costume.”
“Bring me my lunch on a tray in my room,” said Mr. Bennett. “I am going to bed.”
“Very good, sir.”
“But, say, Mr. Bennett....” resumed Bream.
“Grrh!” replied his ex-prospective-father-in-law, and bounded up the stairs like a portion of the sunset which had become detached from the main body.
§ 4
Even into the blackest days there generally creeps an occasional ray of sunshine, and there are few crises of human gloom which are not lightened by a bit of luck. It was so with Mr. Bennett in his hour of travail. There were lobsters for lunch, and his passion for lobsters had made him the talk of three New York clubs. He was feeling a little happier when Billie came in to see how he was getting on.
“Hullo, father. Had a nice lunch?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bennett, cheering up a little at the recollection. “There was nothing wrong with the lunch.”
How little we fallible mortals know! Even as he spoke, a tiny fragment of lobster shell, which had been working its way silently into the tip of his tongue, was settling down under the skin and getting ready to cause him the most acute mental distress which he had ever known.