“Forbear, forbear. Ah, now I began to revive a little.”
He drank the wine, wiped his mustache, and leaned back in his chair as though to reflect on the natural philosophy of life. Madge Ellison entered into the system as a pleasing and satisfactory protoplasmic development. To this bachelor, who already showed a tendency to plumpness below the heart, she was bracketed with good wine, nine-penny cigars, and well-cooked dishes, a thing pleasant to look at and pleasant perhaps to taste.
“How is Mrs. Steel?”
Cutlets and new pease were pushed aside. Dr. Little helped himself generously to sponge custard, his eyes fixed affectionately upon the dish.
“I am rather worried about Betty.”
“Worried?”
The bachelor began to look sleek and happy. His outlook upon life changed greatly after a few magical passes with a spoon and fork.
“I wish you would go up and see her after lunch.”
“Anything to oblige a lady who can show no freckles. What is the woe? A cold in the head?”
Madge Ellison had returned to her chair, and was rocking it gracefully to and fro on two legs. She might have posed as a living metronome marking the rhythm for the epicure’s busy spoon.