DR. MORGAN (returning in haste).—"I forgot. I don't think our poor patient is very rich. I confide him to your disinterested benevolence." (Hurries away.)
DR. DOSEWELL (in a rage).—"Seven miles at six o'clock in the morning, and perhaps done out of my fee! Quack! Villain!"
Meanwhile, Dr. Morgan had returned to the sick-room.
"I must wish you farewell," said he to poor Mr. Digby, who was languidly sipping his tea. "But you are in the hands of a—of a—gentleman in the profession."
"You have been too kind,—I am shocked," said Mr. Digby. "Helen, where's my purse?"
Dr. Morgan paused.
He paused, first, because it must be owned that his practice was restricted, and a fee gratified the vanity natural to unappreciated talent, and had the charm of novelty, which is sweet to human nature itself. Secondly, he was a man—
"Who knew his rights; and, knowing, dared maintain."
He had resigned a coach fare, stayed a night, and thought he had relieved his patient. He had a right to his fee.
On the other hand, he paused, because, though he had small practice, he was tolerably well off, and did not care for money in itself, and he suspected his patient to be no Croesus.