“Ever since you have been in the room.”
“Oh! I take. Ha! ha!—very eccentric—very!” muttered the apothecary, a little disconcerted. “Well, let him lie down, ma’am. I’ll send him a little quieting draught to be taken directly—pill at night, aperient in the morning. If wanted, send for me—always to be found. Bless me, that’s my boy Bob’s ring. Please to open the door, ma’ am. Know his ring—very peculiar knack of his own. Lay ten to one it is Mrs. Plummer, or perhaps, Mrs. Everat—her ninth child in eight years—in the grocery line. A woman in a thousand, sir!”
Here a thin boy, with very short coat-sleeves, and very large hands, burst into the room with his mouth open. “Sir—Mr. Perkins—sir!”
“I know—I know—coming. Mrs. Plummer or Mrs. Everat?”
“No, sir; it be the poor lady at Mrs. Lacy’s; she be taken desperate. Mrs. Lacy’s girl has just been over to the shop, and made me run here to you, sir.”
“Mrs. Lacy’s! oh, I know. Poor Mrs. Morton! Bad case—very bad—must be off. Keep him quiet, ma’am. Good day! Look in to-morrow—nine o’clock. Put a little lint with the lotion on the head, ma’am. Mrs. Morton! Ah! bad job that.”
Here the apothecary had shuffled himself off to the street door, when Arthur laid his hand on his arm.
“Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, sir? What kind of a person—is she very ill?”
“Hopeless case, sir—general break-up. Nice woman—quite the lady—known better days, I’m sure.”
“Has she any children—sons?”