His eye met mine meaningly, and I found speech. We had rehearsed this little scene with a good deal of care over the luncheon-table, and the dialogue began to come back to me. I was able to ignore the seagull and proceed.
“I’m afraid I have serious news, old man,” I said, in a hushed voice.
“Serious news?” said Ukridge, trying to turn pale.
“Serious news!”
I had warned him during rehearsals that this was going to sound uncommonly like a vaudeville cross-talk act of the Argumentative College Chums type, but he had ruled out the objection as far-fetched. Nevertheless, that is just what it did sound like, and I found myself blushing warmly.
“What is it?” demanded Ukridge, emotionally, clutching me by the arm in a grip like the bite of a horse.
“Ouch!” I cried. “Your aunt!”
“My aunt?”
“They telephoned from the house just now,” I proceeded, warming to my work, “to say that she had had a relapse. Her condition is very serious. They want you there at once. Even now it may be too late.”
“Water!” said Ukridge, staggering back and clawing at his waistcoat—or rather at my waistcoat, which I had foolishly omitted to lock up. “Water!”