He was, therefore, torn
by foes in a mental conflict, and was in no case to sip the philosophic
honey of Marcus Aurelius as he sat between the telescope and the fire in
the comfortable drawing-room awaiting his grandmother's return.
"Gustavus," said Mr. Ferdinand in the servants' hall to the flushed
footman who lay upon a what-not, sipping a glass of ale and reading a
new and unabridged farthing edition of Carlyle's _French Revolution_,
"Gustavus, Mrs. Merillia has been and gone to the Gaiety Theatre
to-night. We expect her back at eleven-thirty sharp. She may need
assistance on her return, Gustavus."
The footman put down the tumbler which he was in the act of raising to
his pouted lips.
"Assistance, Mr. Ferdinand!" he ejaculated. "Mrs. Merillia, Mr.
Ferdinand!"
"She may--we say she _may_--have to be carried to bed, Gustavus."
Gustavus's jaw dropped, and the _French Revolution_ fluttered in his
startled hands.
"Good lawks, Mr. Ferdinand!" he exclaimed (not quoting from Carlyle).
"Have an armchair ready in the hall, Gustavus. Mrs. Merillia must not be
dropped. You understand? That will do, Gustavus."
And Mr. Ferdinand passed to the adjacent supper-table, to join the upper
housemaid in a discussion of two subjects that were very near to their
hearts, a round of beef and a tureen of pickled cabbage, while Gustavus
got up from the what-not in a bemused manner, and proceeded to search
dreamily for an armchair.
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