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.”
“Certainly, certainly. A capital idea.”