"Where was ut ye dined?" asked Paddy, as I pulled up a chair and rang for cigars. To a practised ear his brogue was an eloquent war signal.
"In the sick-house," I told him, "Adelphi Terrace."
"Is ut catching?" he inquired. "It's not for my own self I'm asking, but Nigel here. I owe ut to empire and postherity to see he runs no risks."
I reassured him on the score of posterity.
"He's just knocked up and over-tired," I said, "and I'm keeping him in bed till Wednesday or Thursday."
"Then he'll not be walking ye into the Lake District to find Miss Mavis for the present," Paddy observed with an eye on Nigel.
"He'll be walking nowhere till Wednesday at earliest," I said with great determination.
Paddy cut a cigar, and assumed an air of dissatisfaction.
"I'd have ye remember the days of grace," he grumbled.
I shrugged my shoulders without answering.