A THOROUGHLY MIS-SPENT life had left the Hon. Galahad Threepwood, contrary to the most elementary justice, in what appeared to be perfect, even exuberantly perfect physical condition. How a man who ought to have had the liver of the century could look and behave as he did was a constant mystery to his associates. His eye was not dimmed nor his natural force abated. And when, skipping blithely across the turf, he tripped over the spaniel, so graceful was the agility with which he recovered his balance that he did not spill a drop of the whisky and soda in his hand. He continued to bear the glass aloft like some brave banner beneath which he had often fought and won. Instead of the blot on the proud family, he might have been a teetotal acrobat.
Having disentangled himself from the spaniel and soothed the animal’s wounded feelings by permitting it to sniff the whisky-and-soda, the Hon. Galahad produced a black-rimmed monocle, and, screwing it into his eye, surveyed the table with a frown of distaste.
“Tea?”
Millicent reached for a cup.
“Cream and sugar, Uncle Gally?”
He stopped her with a gesture of shocked loathing.
“You know I never drink tea. Too much respect for my inside. Don’t tell me you are ruining your inside with that poison.”
“Sorry, Uncle Gally. I like it.”
“You be careful,” urged the Hon. Galahad, who was fond of his niece and did not like to see her falling into bad habits. “You be very careful how you fool about with that stuff. Did I ever tell you about poor Buffy Struggles back in ’ninety-three? Some misguided person lured poor old Buffy into one of those temperance lectures illustrated with coloured slides, and he called on me next day ashen, poor old chap—ashen. ‘Gally,’ he said. ‘What would you say the procedure was when a fellow wants to buy tea? How would a fellow set about it?’ ‘Tea?’ I said. ‘What do you want tea for?’ ‘To drink’, said Buffy. ‘Pull yourself together, dear boy,’ I said. ‘You’re talking wildly. You can’t drink tea. Have a brandy and soda.’ ‘No more alcohol for me,’ said Buffy. ‘Look what it does to the common earthworm.’ ‘But you’re not a common earthworm,’ I said, putting my finger on the flaw in his argument right away. ‘I dashed soon shall be if I go on drinking alcohol,’ said Buffy. Well, I begged him with tears in my eyes not to do anything rash, but I couldn’t move him. He ordered in ten pounds of the muck and was dead inside the year.”
“Good heavens! Really?”
The Hon. Galahad nodded impressively.
“Dead as a door-nail. Got run over by a hansom cab, poor dear old chap, as he was crossing Piccadilly.”
Extract from “Summer Lightning.”