“Why, Mr Lynch, to-day would be better. The fever’s periodical, you see, and will be on her again to-morrow—”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor Colligan,” said Barry, of a sudden remembering to be civil,—“but you’ll take a glass of wine?”
“Not a drop, thank ye, of anything.”
“Oh, but you will;” and Barry rang the bell and had the wine brought. “And you expect she’ll have another attack to-morrow?”
“That’s a matter of course, Mr Lynch; the fever’ll come on her again to-morrow. Every attack leaves her weaker and weaker, and we fear she’ll go off, before it leaves her altogether.”
“Poor thing!” said Barry, contemplatively.
“We had her head shaved,” said the doctor.
“Did you, indeed!” answered Barry. “She was my favourite sister, Doctor Colligan—that is, I had no other.”
“I believe not,” said Doctor Colligan, looking sympathetic.
“Take another glass of wine, doctor?—now do,” and he poured out another bumper.