"My land," I snapped, trying to find my bedroom slippers, "I didn't make
him take clam chowder for supper, and that's what's the matter with him.
He's going on a strained rice diet, that's what he's going to do. I've
got to have my sleep."

She was waiting in the hall in her kimono, and holding a candle. Anybody
could see she'd been crying. As she often said to me, of course she was
grateful that Mr. Moody didn't drink--no one knew his virtues better
than she did. But her sister married a man who went on a terrible bat
twice a year, and all the rest of the time he was humble and affable
trying to make up for it. And sometimes she thought if Mr. Moody would
only take a little whisky when he had these attacks--! I'd rather be
the wife of a cheerful drunkard any time than have to live with a
cantankerous saint. Miss Cobb and I had had many a fight over it, but at
that time there wasn't much likelihood of either of us being called on
to choose.

Well, we went down to Mr. Moody's room, and he was sitting up in bed
with his knees drawn up to his chin and a hot-water bottle held to him.

"Look at your work, woman," he said to me when I opened the door.

"I'm dying!"

"You look sick," I said, going over to the bed. It never does to cross
them when they get to the water-bottle stage. "The pharmacy clerk's gone
to a dance over at Trimble's, but I guess I can find you some whisky."

"Do have some whisky, George," begged Mrs. Moody, remembering her
brother-in-law.