About noon Mr. Coulson knocked two glasses off his table, broke the spring of his bell, and yelled for Higgins at the same time.
“Bring an axe,” commanded Mr. Coulson, sardonically, “or send out for a quart of prussic acid, or have a policeman come in and shoot me. I’d rather that than be frozen to death.”
“It does seem to be getting cool, sir,” said Higgins. “I hadn’t noticed it before. I’ll close the window, sir.”
“Do,” said Mr. Coulson. “They call this spring, do they? If it keeps up long I’ll go back to Palm Beach. House feels like a morgue.”
Later Miss Coulson dutifully came in to inquire how the gout was progressing.
“’Stantia,” said the old man, “how is the weather outdoors?”
“Bright,” answered Miss Coulson, “but chilly.”
“Feels like the dead of winter to me,” said Mr. Coulson.
“An instance,” said Constantia, gazing abstractedly out the window, “of ‘winter lingering in the lap of spring,’ though the metaphor is not in the most refined taste.”
A little later she walked down by the side of the little park and on westward to Broadway to accomplish a little shopping.
A little later than that Mrs. Widdup entered the invalid’s room.
“Did you ring, sir?” she asked, dimpling in many places. “I asked Higgins to go to the drug store, and I thought I heard your bell.”
