I sink back in my chair, with a slight shiver.
"Give it up!" says my other neighbor, with a compassionate smile, and speaking in a voice not a whit lower than usual—"I would!—it really is no good!"
"Why does not he have a trumpet?" ask I, with a slight accent of irritation, for I have suffered much, and it is hot.
"He had one once," replies my companion, still pityingly regarding the flushed discomposure of my face; "but people would insist on bawling so loudly down it, that they nearly broke the drum of his ear, and so he broke it."
I laugh a little, but in a puny way. There is not much laugh in me. Again I look round the table. Musgrave is better; he is a better color than he was. Under the influence of Barbara's gentle talk, his features have reassumed almost serenity. Algy is no better. I see him lean back, and speak to the servant behind him. He is asking for more champagne. I wish he would not. He has had quite enough already. Roger and Mrs. Huntley are much as they were. They are still leaning back in their chairs—still looking with friendly intimacy into each other's eyes—still smiling. Again a few words of their talk reach me.
"Do you recollect?"
"Do you remember?"
"Have you forgotten?"
Clearly, they have fallen upon old times. I wish—I dearly wish—that I might bite a piece out of somebody.