“I think you’re quite right,” Laura agreed, a malicious twinkle in her eye. “Drink it up at once, _darling_!” Mr. Priestley gazed at her with mute appeal. “If I were _you_, mum,” the landlady added, “I wouldn’t let him go down to change ’is clothes till he had drunk it.” “Darling,” said Laura, “you don’t go down to change your clothes till you have drunk it.” There was no real reason why Mr. Priestley should not have said loudly: “Bosh!” and walked out of the room. But he didn’t. He drank up his elderberry wine. Then he walked sadly to the door. Once he had a Palate. . . . “Half a minute, sir,” remarked the landlady. “Your good lady hasn’t drunk up hers yet.” Mr. Priestley stopped short in his tracks. “If I were you, sir,” observed the landlady with much enjoyment, “I should make her drink it. You’ll have her on your hands for a week with the influenza if you don’t, you mark my words.” “_Darling_,” said Mr. Priestley in italics, advancing towards his adopted wife, “_drink up your wine!_” “I don’t think I will, really,” Laura murmured, backing uneasily, “I—I’ve had enough.” “I’m not going out of this room till you do,” said Mr. Priestley with triumph. The battle of wills lasted only two minutes, but two minutes can seem a very long time. At the end of it, with a slightly dazed look in her eyes, Laura drank up her elderberry wine. Laura had not had very much practice in doing what she was told, and it did not come easily to her. Then Mr. Priestley went downstairs. The landlady watched him go, carrying as he did with him three-quarters of a pint of her elderberry wine, with a triumphant eye. She felt that she had done her duty, and not only as an anti-influenza specialist; she felt that this couple would be grateful to her the next morning, and not only because their noses would not be streaming. The landlady had brought seven children into the world in her time, and she was an expert in many things beside influenza. In the traditional way she proceeded to put the bride to bed. Going downstairs with that uneasy young woman’s wet clothes, she found the groom hovering nervously. With words of homely encouragement she sent him flying upstairs with cheeks as red as his lady’s night-gown. Mr. Priestley was proving himself to be a man of singular resolution. There were few things in this world that he wanted to do less than turn the key on the inside of that bedroom door; yet he knew the key must be turned. He turned it.