“Well, let him wait,” said Hugh, once more flushing with annoyance. (Why his son’s empressement?)
“He says one word will do,” said Ralph, pleadingly.
“What is the matter with you?” asked his father, with an embarrassed laugh, taking up the dainty little note addressed to “Monsieur le Docteur Paull,” in a weak but pretty handwriting. “There,” he said, suddenly, by some curious impulse handing the open note to the lad. “I don’t know what to do. You shall decide.”
The note contained but a few words:
“Cher Monsieur,—I will ask you as a great kindness to me to give me your advice, when and how it pleases you. Receive my compliments.
“Mercedes (Princess Andriocchi).”
“Decide?” Ralph stared at his father.
“Shall I go, or not?” said Hugh.
“What else would you do, father?” said his son, astonished.
He scarcely understood—he had never known his father refuse advice to a patient.