“No,” replied Lady Wroxton. “It is very bad for him, but it is quite useless to remonstrate with him, for it only puts him out of temper to be offered the wholesome dishes Dr Chettle prescribes, when he has expressed a desire for something most indigestible, and you know what he is, Ashley, when he is thwarted! And when he flies into one of his odd rages!”

“I know!” said the Viscount, smiling.

“It is even worse for him when he does that, because he becomes exhausted, and then falls into a fit of dejection, and says that he is burnt to the socket, and has nothing to do but to wind up his accounts. And it is quite as bad for the household, for even Pedmore, who is so very devoted to us, doesn’t like to have things thrown at him—particularly when it chances to be mutton-broth.”

“As bad as that?” said the Viscount, considerably startled.

“Oh, not always!” his mother assured him, in a comfortable voice. “And he is in general very sorry afterwards, and tries to make amends for having behaved with so little moderation. I daresay he will be a trifle twitty tonight, but I have the greatest hope that tomorrow he will be content to eat a panada, or a boiled chicken. So you have no need to look so concerned, dearest: very likely it will be several weeks before he indulges himself again with his favourite dishes.”

“I am concerned for you, Mama, far more than I am for him! I don’t know how you are able to bear your life! I could not!”

“No, I don’t suppose you could,” she responded, looking at him in tolerant amusement. “You weren’t acquainted with him when he was young, and naturally you were never in love with him. But I was, and I remember how gay, and handsome, and dashing he used to be, and how very happy we were. And we still love one another, Ashley.”