Dinner falling in a time of excitement like that which I have just described, with its suggestions of perfect calm and regularity, the unbroken routine of life, has a very curious effect upon agitated minds. John Mitford felt as if some catastrophe must have happened to him as he sat alone at his side of the table, and looked across at Kate, who was a little troubled too, and reflected how long a time he must sit there eating and drinking, or pretending to eat and drink; obliged to keep at that distance from her--to address common conversation to her--to describe the boating, and the wood, and all that had happened, as if it had been the most ordinary expedition in the world. Kate was very kind to him in this respect, though perhaps he was too far gone to think it kind. She took upon herself the weight of the conversation. She told Mrs Mitford quite fluently all about the boat and her bad steering, and all the accidents that had happened, and how John had jumped into the water. “I know you will never forgive me if he has caught cold,” Kate said, glibly, with even a mischievous look in her eye; “but I must tell. And I do hope you changed your stockings,” she said, leaning across the table to him with a smile. It was a mocking smile, full of mischief, and yet there was in it a certain softened look. It was then that poor John felt as if some explosion must take place, as he sat and restrained himself, and tried to look like a man interested in his dinner. Nobody else took any notice of his agitation, and probably even his mother did not perceive it; but Jervis the butler did, as he stood by his side, and helped Mr John to potatoes. He could not dissimulate the shaking of his hand. “My dear, I should never blame _you_,” said Mrs Mitford, with a little tremor in her voice; “he is always so very rash. Of course you changed, John?” “Oh, of course,” he said, with a laugh, which sounded cynical and Byronic to his audience. And then he made a violent effort to master himself. “Miss Crediton thought the river was rather pretty,” he added, with a hard-drawn breath of agitation, which sounded to his mother like the first appearance of the threatened cold. “Jervis,” she said, mildly, “will you be good enough to fetch me the camphor from my cupboard, and two lumps of sugar? My dear boy, it is not nasty; it is only as a precaution. It will not interfere with your dinner, and it is sure to stop a cold.” John gave his mother a look under which she trembled. It said as plainly as possible, you are making me ridiculous; and it was pointed by a glance at Kate, who certainly was smiling. Mrs Mitford was quick enough to understand, and she was cowed by her son’s gravity. “Perhaps, on second thoughts,” she said, faltering, “you need not mind, Jervis. It will do when Mr John goes to bed.”