Evangeline curtseyed and withdrew. I had spent my leisure moments during the week teaching her the trick, as a surprise for Suzanne on her return.
Next morning, as I lay in bed thinking out the subject of my next Message to the Nation, I was gratified to notice that the rain had ceased and the sun was shining genially. I thought of Suzanne and the refreshing fruit in Suzanne's relatives' attractive gardens. Should I go after all? I rang the bell.
"Has that wire gone yet?" I asked.
"Indeed I took it these two hours back," replied Evangeline.
I looked at my watch and grunted.
"Bring me a telegram-form," I commanded, "and some hotter hot water."
So, having wired to Suzanne: "Malaria false alarm only passing effects of overwork coming by the one-thirty Percival," I found myself at tea-time being nursed back to health on mulberries-and-cream administered by the solicitous hands of Aunt-by-acquisition Lucy.
"Well," I said to Suzanne a little later as we strolled in the direction of the fig-trees, "how did it go off—my first wire, I mean?"
"Oh, I think I did it very well," she replied; "I gave a most realistic exhibition of wifely concern, and the car had just come to take me to the station when your second wire arrived."
"Then they didn't spot anything?"