Cries of joy resounded from those gathered about the chair.
“Hysteric Henry’s cured!”
“Henry’s better!”
“The poor man with the ball in his throat’s been saved!”
“How wonderful you are, Harriet, sweet!” cried Mrs. Bridgeman. “But, then which was it?”
“The madwoman at Brussels. I’ve been thinking about her for two hours this afternoon, with only a cup of tea between.”
“Poor darling! No wonder you’re done up! Ought you to demonstrate? Ah! here’s the champagne!”
“I take it merely as medicine,” said Mrs. Harriet.
At this moment, Mr. Brummich, flushed with assiduity, burst into the circle with a goblet of beaded wine in either hand. There was a moment of solemn silence while Mrs. Harriet and the great Towle condescended to the Pommery. It was broken only by a loud gulp from the hysterical-looking girl who was, it seemed, nervously affected by an imitative spasm, and who suddenly began to swallow nothing with extreme persistence and violence.
“Look at that poor misguided soul!” ejaculated Mrs. Harriet, with her lips to the Pommery. “She fancies she’s drinking!”