Hangover, once more

The butler coughed in rather an unpleasant and censorious manner. 

“Did your lordship exceed last night?”

“Certainly not.”

“Did your lordship imbibe champagne?”

“The merest spot.”

“A bottle?”

“It may have been a bottle.”

“Two bottles?”

“Yes. Possibly two bottles.”

The butler coughed again.

“I shall inform Doctor Spelvin.”

“Don’t be a cad, Gascoigne.”

“He has expressly forbidden your lordship champagne.”

“Tchah!”

“I need scarcely remind your lordship that champagne brings your lordship out in spots.”

Old Wivelscombe barked querulously.

“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t stand there babbling about champagne. It is a word that I do not wish to have mentioned in my presence.”

“Very good, m’lord,” said the butler stiffly. “Your coffee, m’lord. The dry toast is at your lordship’s elbow.”

From P. G. Wodehouse’s “The Luck of the Stiffhams”