“Well, it was time it was done, you see;” and Emily seated herself. “One would really need to know everything beforehand,” she went on, coolly; “then we should at least not have opened those fine wines and the expensive champagne. The supper will cost a great deal too, to be sure, and the money’s all thrown away now; but we can eat everything some time or other among ourselves.”
“The punch won’t keep, I suppose?” asked Max.
“Oh no! it is a pity Jan is so ill.”
“Oh, he’s not so very much worse!” exclaimed Max impatiently. “But what a wretched amount of stuff,” he added, after a moment, when he had made a rapid mental calculation of the needless expense, and realised how odious it would be to see Piet and Emily devouring all the dainties. “If only Jo was not so very tired.”
“Yes; it would be very unfortunate if she were not able to appear. But we can always see how Jan is; and if she were to decide at the last moment to stay with the child,—well, I’d be glad to do the honours.”
“For goodness’ sake let it be, then,” said Max; and as his guest made her escape as fast as she could, without prejudice to her dignity, he sent a wish after her which was more expressive than courteous.
Emily only enjoyed a little laugh at his helpless fury, congratulating herself on the success of her diplomacy, for on hearing about half-an-hour before that the child was worse, she had given orders to have the punch mixed; and when she stepped into the store-room, she was met with a request from Piet, who had been told off to superintend, to taste and see if the ingredients were right.
VII.
Jo did not appear that evening. Jan complained of sore throat; and the mother, in her dread of diphtheria, sent for the doctor at once, and remained at the child’s bedside, in spite of his assurances that nothing was the matter. Emily did the honours, and appeared to enjoy it.
Though each of the guests had privately resolved not to stay late for the little boy’s sake, it was two o’clock before the last had departed, and three before the house was quiet. Indeed absolute quiet there never was that whole night, for Jo, as she lay awake, heard first all sorts of unaccountable sounds proceeding from the guests’ apartment, and then an excited calling out for servants, who either could not or would not hear, followed by a knocking at her own door, and an agitated demand for laudanum, and a confused story about salad and punch, which might be the death of people who suffered from internal complaints. Tea must be infused, and hot-water bottles filled; but when Jo sprang up eager to go and help, her husband held her back authoritatively. He had feigned to be asleep all the time, but when the door was shut, while the strange sounds continued to be heard, then he was seized with such an uncontrollable fit of laughter, that Jo was infected by his merriment, and lay in mortal terror lest Emily should hear them, or Jan be awakened.