“Good night,” said Conyers, with a hearty shake of the hand, “and don't forget your breakfast engagement tomorrow.”
“What 's this?” said Tom, blushing deeply, as he found a crumpled bank-note in his palm.
“It's your fee, my good fellow, that's all,” said the other, laughingly.
“But I can't take a fee. I have never done so. I have no right to one. I am not a doctor yet.”
“The very first lesson in your profession is not to anger your patient; and if you would not provoke me, say no more on this matter.” There was a half-semblance of haughtiness in these words that perhaps the speaker never intended; at all events, he was quick enough to remedy the effect, for he laid his hand good-naturedly on the other's shoulder and said, “For my sake, Dill,—for my sake.”
“I wish I knew what I ought to do,” said Tom, whose pale cheek actually trembled with agitation. “I mean,” said he, in a shaken voice, “I wish I knew what would make you think best of me.”
“Do you attach so much value to my good opinion, then?”
“Don't you think I might? When did I ever meet any one that treated me this way before?”
The agitation in which he uttered these few words imparted such a semblance of weakness to him that Conyers pressed him down into a chair, and filled up his glass with wine.
“Take that off, and you 'll be all right presently,” said he, in a kind tone.