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"There!" said he, after the last sip of coffee, "I believe I don't want another thing to eat till Christmas-day. Mrs. G., you have the art of concocting the most appetizing meals. I never seem to get enough of them." "Two a day!" suggested Mrs. Grapewine, in her sharp manner. "No, no, no! Mrs. G., you are an experienced cateress, that I confess.
Grapewine and myself would be most happy to have you join a small company of friends at our house on Christmas-day, for dinner, at one P.M. The affair will be quite informal, and, to add to the thorough enjoyment of it, I enclose a coupon for a Turkish-bath, which please use on Christmas morning before the hour named. "Yours, sincerely, "GEORGE GRAPEWINE." By the next morning Mr.
After a moment's scratching of the pen, Mr. Grapewine leaned back in his chair and held off the wet sheet at arm's length, reading with strong emphasis as follows, "DEAR CAPTAIN KILLIAM, Mrs.
It would be a kindness to him, you know." "Yes," said she. "Will that be enough? Let me see, that is seven nine with us two." "Quite enough," said she. And so Mr. Grapewine, arousing himself, rose from the sofa, put on his hat and coat, and went out to his business. He was full of the idea. He talked about it to his clerks at the store.
Grapewine counted on her fingers; looked a little uncertain up towards the ceiling, and at last applied to the calendar on the wall behind her, exclaiming, when she had mentally calculated the time, "Week and six days; comes on Thursday." "True," said Mr. Grapewine, and he fell to devouring the residuum of his meal, a very savory mixture, which he swallowed with an amazing relish.
Wonderful!" "A little bilious, sir," said William. "Bilious! bilious! Why, my man, how can anything produce biliousness in an empty stomach? No; it may bring inertia, the Lotos does that, but never biliousness." In the evening, Mr. Grapewine visited the Turkish baths and learned all about them before he went home.
Grapewine got up from the table, undid the napkin from his neck, and yawned both his arms quite over his fat, rosy head as he trode towards the door. Mrs. Grapewine's step was like her conversation, sharp and decisive. She took her husband's arm in an angular manner and led him, still yawning, to the sofa in the library, where she set herself over against him, ready to hear his plans.
"Where is he?" "Bring him down, or I'll go up after him!" "What does he mean by it?" "Insult a respectable lady!" "Let me catch him, that's all!" "Where has he gone?" "I'll send him a challenge by Fobbs!" "Where's his wife?" This was what Mr. Grapewine, listening at the top of the stairs, heard in a confused tumult in his parlor. He could not understand it.
He looked into restaurant windows, humming a tune in the excess of his delight. He looked into bakers' windows and confectionery shops, and a whiff of frying bacon from a little blind court he passed almost set him dancing. Indeed, Mr. Grapewine was a man of juvenile impulse.
But they could take a Turkish bath, and it would be quite a neat little social device to enclose a ticket for a bath with each invitation. "There, madam!" he said to Mrs. Grapewine, "I think that's perfect. We shall have the heartiest, merriest dinner on Christmas-day that man ever devoured. Bring pen and paper, and I'll write to all the guests immediately, ma'am."
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