“I can fancy, Grace,” cried he, loud enough to be heard across the hall, “that Millar is quite proud of his condescension. The great rector of the parish, man of fortune besides, stooping to invite the dispensary doctor! Twelve hundred per annum associating with eighty! To be sure he says, 'You will only meet two friends and neighbors of mine,' as though to intimate, 'I am doing this on the sly; I don't mean to make you a guest on field-days.'”
She muttered something, speedily interrupted by a cough; and he, not caring to catch her words, went on:—
“It is a politeness that cuts both ways, and makes me as uncomfortable as him. This waistcoat has a beggarly account of empty button-holes; and as for my coat, nothing but a dim candle-light would screen its deficiencies. I was a fool to accept!” cried he, impatiently.
“Don't go, Tom! don't go!” screamed the parrot, addressing him by a familiar sobriquet.
“And why not, doctor?” said Layton, laughing at the apropos.
“Don't go! don't go!” repeated the bird.
“Give me your reasons, old boy, and not impossible is it I 'll agree with you. What do you say, Grace?” added he, advancing to the door of his room the better to catch her words.
“It is to them the honor is done, not to you,” said she, faintly, and as though the speech cost her heavily.
“Very hard to persuade the rector of that,—very hard to convince the man of silver side-dishes and cut decanters that he is not the patron of him who dines off Delf and drinks out of pewter. Is this cravat too ragged, Grace? I think I 'd better wear my black one.”
“Yes, the black one,” said she, coughing painfully.