"Are you the better for your sleep?"
"I am fagged out," said Ronnie, wearily.
Aubrey went to a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and handed it
to Ronald.
"Drink this, my boy. It will soon wake you up."
Ronnie drank it. Its tint was golden, its odour, fragrant; but
otherwise, for aught he knew, it might have been pure water.
He sat up and took careful note of his surroundings.
Then an idea seemed to strike him. He leaned forward and twanged the
strings of his 'cello. They were not in tune.
"Will you lend me your tuning-fork?" he said to Aubrey.
But Aubrey had expected this.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't possess one, just now. I gave away mine last
week. You can tune your 'cello by the organ."
"I don't know how to tune a 'cello," said Ronnie.
"Let me show you," suggested Aubrey, with the utmost friendliness.
He walked over to the organ, drew out the 'cello stop, sounded a note,
then came back humming it.
Then he took up the Infant and carefully tuned the four strings, talking
easily meanwhile.
"You see? You screw up the pegs--so. The notes are A, D, G, C."
"What have you done to your lip?" said Ronald, suddenly.
"Knocked it on the stove just now, as I bent to stoke it with my
fingers, for fear of waking you. It bled amazingly."
Aubrey produced a much-stained handkerchief.
"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a
sword-thrust.
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