“Mrs. Trattles!” cried Maitland, and his own voice sounded faint in his ears. “Mrs. Trattles!”
The lady thus invoked answered with becoming modesty, punctuated by sniffs, from the other side of the door:
“Yes, sir; can I do anything for you, sir?”
“Call Dakyns, please,” said Maitland, falling back on his pillow. “I don’t feel very well.”
Dakyns appeared in due course.
“Sorry to hear you’re ill, sir; you do look a little flushed. Hadn’t I better send for Mr. Whalley, sir?”
Now, Mr. Whalley was the doctor whom Oxford, especially the younger generation, delighted to honor.
“No; I don’t think you need. Bring me breakfast here. I think I’ll be able to start for town by the 11.58. And bring me my letters.”
“Very well, sir,” answered Dakyns.
Then with that fearless assumption of responsibility which always does an Englishman credit, he sent the college messenger in search of Mr. Whalley before he brought round Maitland’s letters and his breakfast commons.