When he had swallowed an inch or two of cognac he got up, pulled himself
together with both hands, and walked, like an elderly person afflicted
with incipient locomotor ataxy, upstairs into the drawing-room where
Mrs. Merillia was lying on a sofa, ministered to by Fancy Quinglet, who,
at the moment of his entrance, was busily engaged in stuffing a large
wad of cotton-wool into the right ear of her beloved mistress.
"Leave us please, Fancy," said Mrs. Merillia, in a voice that sounded
much older than usual. "And as your head is so bad, too, you had better
lie down."
"Thank you, ma'am. If I keep upright, ma'am, I feel my head will split
asunder. I can't speak different nor feel other."
"Then don't be upright."
"No, ma'am. Them that feels other, let them declare it!" and Mrs. Fancy
retired, holding both hands to her temples, and uttering very distinctly
sundry stifled moans.
Mrs. Merillia motioned the Prophet to a chair, and, after lying quite
still for about five minutes with her eyes tightly shut, said in a weak
tone of voice,--
"How many more telegrams do you expect, Hennessey? You have had
twenty-seven within the last three hours.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184