"Sun don't always shine in England," said Mr. Copley. "Let me get in and have a cup of tea or coffee. You don't keep such a thing as brandy in the house, do you?"
"You have had brandy enough already," said Dolly in a low, grave voice. "I will make some coffee. Come in—why, you are trembling, father! Are you cold?"
"Haven't been warm for three days. Cold? yes. Coffee, Dolly, let me have some coffee. It's the vilest climate a man ever lived in."
"Why, father," said Dolly, laying her hand on his sleeve, "your coat is wet! What have you done to yourself?"
"Wet? no,—it isn't. I put on a dry coat to come down—wouldn't be such a fool as to put on a wet one. Coffee, Dolly! It's cold enough for a fire."
"But how did your coat get wet, father?"
"'Tisn't wet. I left a wet coat in London—had enough of it. If you go out in England you must get wet. Give me some coffee, if you haven't got any brandy. I tell you, I've never been warm since."
Dolly ran up stairs, where Mrs. Copley was making a little alteration in her dress.
"Mother," she cried, "will you go down and take care of father? He is not well; I am afraid he has taken cold; I am going to make him some coffee as fast as I can. Get him to change his coat;—it is wet."
Then Dolly ran down again, every nerve in her trembling, but forcing herself to go steadily and methodically to work. She made a cup of strong coffee, cooked a nice bit of beefsteak she had in the house, rejoicing that she had it; and while the steak was doing she made a plate of toast, such as she knew both father and mother were fond of. In half an hour she had it all ready and carried it up on a tray. Mrs. Copley was sitting with an anxious and perplexed face watching her husband; he had crept to the empty fireplace and was leaning towards it as towards a place whence comfort ought to be looked for. His wife had persuaded him to exchange the wet coat for an old dressing-gown, which change, however, seemed to have wrought no bettering of affairs.