He entered the bar of the tavern, and his brother waited outside. After two or three minutes, the poet, as if tired of waiting, followed the artist into the bar. He found him with a glass of brandy-and-water cold.
"I had," he explained, "a feeling of faintness. Perhaps this spring air is chilly. One cannot be too careful."
"Quite right," said the poet. "I almost think—yes, I really do feel—ah! Thank you, my dear."
The girl, as if anticipating his wants, set before him a "four" of brandy and the cold water. Perhaps she had seen the face before. As for the dog, he was lying down with his head on his paws. Perhaps he knew there would be no immediate necessity for moving.
They walked in the direction of the Park, arm-in-arm, affectionately.
It might have been a quarter of an hour after leaving the Carnarvon Arms when the poet stopped and gasped—
"Humphrey, my dear brother, advise me. What would you do if you had a sharp and sudden pain like a knife inside you?"
Humphrey replied promptly:
"If I had a sharp and sudden pain like a knife inside me, I should take a small glass of brandy neat. Mind, no spoiling the effect with water."
Cornelius looked at his brother with admiration.