"Leave me alone," she says, and goes slowly up the stair, to the great embellishment of her aunt's carpeting, and I follow. On the landing she turns round.
"Come into my room, by-and-by," she says.
I have slipped out of my wet clothes, and am almost attired in dry ones, when Mrs. Fleming comes in bearing a tumbler of hot wine, which she makes me drink. It tastes very good, but surely it is rather strong?
She goes away, and I proceed with my toilet; but somehow, I don't seem to be quite mistress of my own legs, and in crossing the room I have to tack a good deal. My ideas, too, are very hazy. I find myself surveying various articles of my attire with a benignant and fixed smile, instead of putting them on; and I am by-and-by distinctly conscious that, with no apparent volition of my own, I am standing before my looking-glass, swaying from side to side, and saying, in an indistinct voice,
"My intentions is good, Jack, but my legs is weak." And after that I know nothing, save that I am blessedly, soundly asleep.
The clock is striking seven as I awake, and Mrs. Fleming is looking down on me with some anxiety.
"What does it all mean?" I say, rubbing my eyes; "I never went to sleep like this in the daytime before. Was it the thunderbolt?"
"No," says Mrs. Fleming; "I think it was the wine. I put brandy in it to keep the cold out, and forgot you were not used to it."
"And so I have been tipsy," I say, putting my hand to my head. "Oh, what would papa say if he could see me?"
"Say it was my fault," says Mrs. Fleming; "and now, my dear, don't trouble about that. Can you go to Silvia now? She has been asking for you."
