I won't be rushed round to
pink teas and--and all that sort of thing."
"Far more wholesome than pink whiskeys at Dutch House."
"You don't understand--"
"No; but I mean to. There!" announced P. Sybarite, finishing the
bandage with a tidy flat knot--make yourself comfortable on that
couch, tell me where you keep your whiskey, and I'll mix myself a
drink and listen to your degrading confession....
"Now," he added, when Peter Kenny, stretched out on the couch, had
suffered himself to be covered up--"not being an M.D., I've no
conscience at all about letting you talk yourself to death; eaten
alive as I am with curiosity; and knowing besides that you can't kill
a Kenny but with kindness."
"You'll find the whiskey on the buffet," said the boy.
"Obliged to you," P. Sybarite replied, finding it.
"And I suppose I--"
"You're quite right; you've had enough. Alcohol is nothing to help
mend a wound. If your friend Higgins permits it, when he comes--well
and good.... Meanwhile," he added, taking a seat near the head of the
couch, and fixing his youthful relation with a stern enquiring
eye--"what were you doing in Dutch House the night?"
"I've been trying to tell you--"
"And now you must.... Is there a cigar handy?... Thanks.... This
whiskey is prime stuff.... Go on. I'm waiting."
"Well," Peter Kenny confessed sheepishly. "I'm in love--"
"And you proposed to her to-night at the ball?"
"Yes, and--"
"She refused you.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163