“I’m motoring out in my runabout to see a patient who lives a few miles up the river, and I want you to come along.”
The invitation, which would mean nothing to you but a yes or a no, struck me almost speechless. There was first the pleasure of it. I have not laid stress on the fact that the weather was sickeningly hot, because it didn’t enter into our considerations. We were too deeply concerned with other things to care much that the house was stifling; and yet stifling it was. But more important than that was the fact that any one in the world should want to show me this courtesy. Remember that I had been beyond the reach of courtesies. A drink from some one who would expect me to give him a drink in return was the utmost I had known in this direction for months, and I might say for years.
Is it any wonder that in my reply I stammered and stuttered and nearly sobbed?
“Oh, but, I say, I—I look too beastly for an expedition of—of that sort. I’m awfully sorry, but—but I—well, you know how it is.”
“Oh, get out! You’ve got to have the air. I’m your doctor. I’m not going to see you cooped up there day after day in weather like this. Besides, I’m bringing along a couple of dust-coats—the roads will be dusty part of the way—and we shall both be covered up. Expect me by half past two.”
As he put up the receiver without waiting for further protests, there was nothing for me but submission.
“I’ve been ’ere as long as you ’ave,” Lovey complained when I told him of my invitation, “and nobody don’t ask me to go hout in no automobiles.”
“Oh, but they will.”
He shook his head.