"But he won't have dinner."
"What!" The stiffness went out of her form in visible detachments. "Then he air sick!"
She made one attempt to help matters. "Can't I make him something nice? Very nice?—And light?" She brightened at the hope.
"No, nothink. He will not hear to it."
"Then you must have the doctor." She spoke decisively.
To this the butler made no reply, at least in words. He stood wrapt in deep abstraction, his face filled with perplexity and gloom, and as the cook watched him anxiously her face too took on gradually the same expression.
"I has not see him like this before, not in ten year—not in twelve year. Not since he got that letter from that young lady what—." He stopped and looked at the cook.—"He was hactually hirascible!"
"He must be got to bed, poor dear!" said the cook, sympathetically. "And you must get the doctor, and I'll make some good rich broth to have it handy.—And just when we were a-goin' to dress the house and have it so beautiful!"
She turned away, her round face full of woe.
"Ah! Well!—" The butler tried to find some sentence that might be comforting; but before he could secure one that suited, the door bell rang, and he went to answer it.