He sent one of the two parlourmaids upstairs for his carpet
slippers out of the carpet-bag, and he passed part of the time in
changing his boots for his slippers in front of the fire. Then at
length, just as a maid was staggering out under the load of those
enormous boots, Harold appeared, very correct, but alone.
'Awfully sorry to keep you waiting, uncle,' said Harold, 'but Maud
isn't well. She isn't coming down tonight.'
'What's up wi' Maud?'
'Oh, goodness knows!' responded Harold gloomily. 'She's not well--
that's all.'
'H'm!' said Dan. 'Well, let's peck a bit.'
So they sat down and began to peck a bit, aided by the two maids.
Dan pecked with prodigious enthusiasm, but Harold was not in good
pecking form. And as the dinner progressed, and Harold sent dish
after dish up to his wife, and his wife returned dish after dish
untouched, Harold's gloom communicated itself to the house in
general.
One felt that if one had penetrated to the farthest corner of the
farthest attic, a little parcel of spiritual gloom would have
already arrived there. The sense of disaster was in the abode. The
cook was prophesying like anything in the kitchen. Durand in the
garage was meditating upon such of his master's pithy remarks as
he had been able to understand.
When the dinner was over, and the coffee and liqueurs and cigars
had been served, and the two maids had left the dining-room, Dan
turned to his grandnephew and said--
'There's things as has changed since my time, lad, but human
nature inna' one on em.
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