“What did I do to him?” she asked.
“He’s spiked,” nodded the latter. “I’m spiked myself, but if ever you see me as solemn about it as Barry is, why, kick my shins, dear, and accept gratitude in advance.”
Then she turned to shake hands with Coltfoot, who came sauntering up, hat in hand.
“Hello, old top,” she said. “You’re half an hour late, but I’d wait a lifetime for anybody who resembles you. Come on in and see Betsy cut up on the scr-r-r-een!”
Since the departure of Eris, Annan’s appetite had become an increasing source of worry to Mrs. Sniffen.
That evening he left most of his dinner untouched. When he had been writing all day he often did that. But he had done no writing for days.
To Mrs. Sniffen’s fears and remonstrances he turned a deaf ear, denying that he was not perfectly well.
“When does the last mail arrive?” he asked. He asked her this every evening, now, and she always instructed him, but he seemed to forget.
He went upstairs to his study, dropped onto the lounge, lighted a pipe. What else was he to do—with the main-spring broken.