Dr. Temple leaped to his feet and ran to his wife's aid. He found her a dismal, ashen sight.
"Sally! What on earth ails you?"
"Been smok-oking," she hiccoughed.
The world seemed to be crashing round Dr. Temple's head. He could only gurgle, "Sally!"
Mrs. Temple drew herself up with weak defiance: "Well, I saw you playing cards and drinking."
In the presence of such innocent deviltry he could only smile: "Aren't we having an exciting vacation? But to think of you smoking!—and a cigar!"
She tossed her head in pride. "And it didn't make me sick—much." She clutched a chair. He tried to support her. He could not help pondering: "What would they say in Yp-hip-silanti?"
"Who cares?" she laughed. "I—I wish the old train wouldn't rock so."
"I—I've smoked too much, too," said Dr. Temple with perfect truth, but Mrs. Temple, remembering that long glass she had seen, narrowed her eyes at him: "Are you sure it was the smoke?"
"Sally!" he cried, in abject horror at her implied suspicion.