“Tea, my dear Evadne,” he said, as he passed her cup to be refilled, “is an infusion of poison which is slowly but surely destroying the coatings of the gastronomical organ of the female portion of society.  I tremble to think of the amount of tannin which analysis would show deposited in the systems of the votaries of the deadly Five o’clock, and the unhealthy nervous tension of the age is largely traceable to the excessive consumption of the pernicious liquid.  Chocolate, on the contrary, taken as I always drink it, is simple and nutritive, with no unpleasant after effects to be apprehended, but this decoction of bitter herbs, steeped to death in water far past its proper temperature, is concentrated lye, my dear Evadne, nothing but concentrated lye.  By the way, Marthe, I wish you would give your personal supervision to the preparation of my hot water in the future.  Nothing comparable to hot water, Evadne, just before retiring.  It aids digestion and induces sleep, and sleep you know is a gift of the gods.  The Chinese mode of punishing criminals has always seemed to me exquisite in its barbarity.  They simply make it impossible for the unhappy wretches to obtain a wink of sleep, until at length the torture grows unbearable and they find refuge in the long sleep which no mortal has power to prevent.  So, my dear Marthe, see to it if you please in future that my slumber tonic is served just on the boil.  The worthy Joanna does not understand the mysteries of the boiling process.  Water, after it has passed the initiatory stage becomes flat, absolutely flat and tasteless.  What I had to drink last night was so repugnant to my palate that I found it impossible to sink into repose with that calm attitude of mind which is so essential to perfect slumber.

“See to it also, my dear, that I am not disturbed at such an unearthly hour again as I was this morning.  Tesla, the great electrician, has put himself on record as intimating that the want of sleep is a potent factor in the deplorably heavy death rate of the present day.  He thinks sleep and longevity are synonymous, therefore it becomes us to bend every effort to attain that desirable consummation.”

Involuntarily Evadne looked at Mrs. Everidge.  Her face was slightly turned towards the open window and there was a half smile upon her lips, as if, like Joan of Arc, she was listening to voices of sweeter tone than those of earth.  She came back to the present again on the instant and met her niece’s eyes with a smile, but in the subtle realm of intuition we learn by lightning flashes, and Evadne needed no further telling to know that the saddest loneliness which can fall to the lot of a woman was the fate of her aunt.

Immediately after supper Mrs. Everidge persuaded Evadne to go to her room.  The long journey had been a great strain upon her strength and she was very tired.

“I wish you a good night, Uncle Horace,” she said as she passed him in the doorway.