You might have caught your death of cold--or a bad dose of rheumatism." "So I might.

No doubt it was foolish of me," agreed Uncle Blair gaily.
"It must have been the fault, of the moonlight.

Moonlight, you know, Sister Janet, has an intoxicating quality.

It is a fine, airy, silver wine, such as fairies may drink at their revels, unharmed of it; but when a mere mortal sips of it, it mounts straightway to his brain, to the undoing of his daylight common sense.

However, I have got neither cold nor rheumatism, as a sensible person would have done had he ever been lured into doing such a non-sensible thing; there is a special Providence for us foolish folk.