"Indeed, madam, to my humble eyes,
you are most beautifully and fittingly--ah--hooked up." He turned toward
the invalid. "And how is the fortunate husband of the charming Mrs. Taine
to-day?"
"Fine, Lagrange, fine," said the man--a cough interrupting his words.
"Really, I think that Gertrude is unduly alarmed about my condition. In
this glorious climate, I feel like a three-year-old."
"You _are_ looking quite like yourself," returned the novelist.
"There's nothing at all the matter with me but a slight bronchial
trouble," continued the other, coughing again. Then, to his
wife--"Dearest, won't you ring, please; I'm sure it's time for my toddy;
perhaps Mr. Lagrange will join me in a drink. What'll it be, Lagrange?"
"Nothing, thanks, at this hour."
"No? But you'll pardon me, I'm sure--Doctor's orders you know."
A servant appeared. Mrs. Taine took the glass and carried it to her
husband with her own hand, saying with tender solicitude, "Don't you
think, dear, that you should lie down for a while? Mr. Lagrange will
remain for dinner, you know. You must not tire yourself. I'm sure he will
excuse you. I'll manage somehow to amuse him until Jim and Louise return."
"I believe I will rest a little, Gertrude.
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