"What do you think of Mr. Earlforward's health?" Violet demanded peremptorily, in the bedroom. Her features were alive with urgent emotion. She almost intimidated the doctor.
"Ha!" he retorted defensively, with an explosive jerk. "I haven't examined him. I have—not—examined him. He strikes me as under-nourished."
"And he is. He refuses food."
"But why does he refuse food? There must be some cause."
"It's because he's set on being economical. He's got drawers full of money, and so have I—at least, I've got a good income of my own. But there you are. He won't eat, he won't eat. He won't eat enough, do what I will."
"Is that the only reason?"
"Of course it is. He's never had indigestion in his life."
"Um! Your maid, what's her name, seems to be pretty well nourished, at all events."
"Have you been seeing her?" Violet inquired sharply, her suspicion leaping up.
The doctor appreciated his own great careless indiscretion, and answered with admirable deceitful nonchalance: