'Bruce is looking
pretty blooming. Not so many illnesses lately has he?'
'Not when he's at home,' said Edith.
'Ah! At the F O the dear fellow does, I'm afraid, suffer a good deal from
nerves,' said Mr Mitchell, especially towards the end of the day. About
four o'clock, I mean, you know! You know old Bruce! Good sort he is. I
see he hasn't got the woman I meant him to sit next to, somehow or
other. I see he's next to Miss Coniston.'
'Oh, he likes her.'
'Good, good. Thought she was a bit too artistic, and high-browed, as the
Americans say, for him. But now he's used to that sort of thing, isn't
he? Madame Frabelle, eh? Wonderful woman. No soup, Edith: why not?'
'It makes me silent,' said Edith; 'and I like to talk.'
Mitchell laughed loudly. 'Ha ha! Champagne for Mrs Ottley. What are you
about?' He looked up reprovingly at the servant. Mr Mitchell was the
sort of man who never knows, after twenty years' intimate friendship,
whether a person takes sugar or not.
Edith allowed the man to fill her glass. She knew it depressed Mr
Mitchell to see people drinking water. So she only did it
surreptitiously, and as her glass was always full, because she never
drank from it, Mr Mitchell was happy.
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