is drinking every thing that is
offered to him. His face is not much redder than Musgrave's, and he is
glancing across the table at Mrs. Huntley, with the haggard anger of his
eyes. Of this, however, she seems innocently unaware. She is leaning
back in her chair; so is Roger. They are talking low and quickly, and
looking smilingly at each other. When does his face ever light up into
such alert animation when he is talking to me? There can be no doubt of
it! Why blink a thing because it is unpleasant? I _bore him_.

I have no intention of listening, and yet I hear some of their
words--enough to teach me the drift of their talk. "Residency!"
"Cawnpore!" "Simlah!" "_Cursed_ Simlah!" "_Cursed_ Cawnpore!" My
attention is recalled by the voice of my old neighbor.

"Talking of that--" he says--(talking of _what_, in Heaven's name?)--"I
once knew a man--a doctor, at Norwich--who did not marry till he was
seventy-eight, and had four as fine children as any man need wish to
see."

By the extraordinary irrelevancy of this anecdote, I am so taken aback
that, for a moment, I am unable to utter. Seeing, however, that some
comment is expected from me, I stammer something about its being a great
age. He, however, imagines that I am asking whether they were boys or
girls.

"Three boys and a girl, or three girls and a boy!" he answers, with loud
distinctness--"I cannot recollect which; but, after all--" (with an
acrid chuckle)--"that is not the point of the story!"

I sink back in my chair, with a slight shiver.

"Give it up!" says my other neighbor, with a compassionate smile, and
speaking in a voice not a whit lower than usual--"_I_ would!--it really
is no good!"

"Why does not he have a _trumpet_?" ask I, with a slight accent of
irritation, for I have suffered much, and it is hot.

"He had one once," replies my companion, still pityingly regarding the
flushed discomposure of my face; "but people _would_ insist on bawling
so loudly down it, that they nearly broke the drum of his ear, and so
_he_ broke _it_."

I laugh a little, but in a puny way. There is not much laugh in me.
Again I look round the table. Musgrave is better; he is a better color
than he was. Under the influence of Barbara's gentle talk, his features
have reassumed almost serenity. Algy is _no_ better. I see him lean
back, and speak to the servant behind him. He is asking for more
champagne. I wish he would not. He has had quite enough already. Roger
and Mr