"Yes," said Paul, albeit wondering at the question.

"Something like this, Swiss villa style. I remember when Jack put
it up. Well, the last time I was out, I passed there. And what do
you think they've done to it?"

Paul could not imagine.

"Well, sir," said the colonel gravely, "they've changed it into a
church missionary shop and young men's Christian reading-room! But
that's 'progress' and 'improvement'!" He paused, and, slowly
withdrawing his hand from Paul's, added with grim apology, "You're
young, and belong to the new school, perhaps. Well, sir, I've read
your speech; I don't belong to your party--mine died ten years ago--
but I congratulate you. George! Confound it where's that boy
gone?"

The negro indicated by this youthful title, although he must have
been ten years older than his master, after a hurried shuffling in
the sitting-room eventually appeared at the door.

"George, champagne and materials for cocktails for the gentleman.
The BEST, you understand. No new-fangled notions from that new
barkeeper."

Paul, who thought he observed a troubled blinking in George's
eyelid, and referred it to a fear of possible excitement for his
patient, here begged his host not to trouble himself--that he
seldom took anything in the morning.