“It 's spasmodic,—this cough. I don't know if that be any advantage, or the reverse; but the doctor says 'only spasmodic,' which would lead one to suppose it might be worse. Would you do me the great favor to drop thirty-five—be sure only thirty-five—of these? I hope your hand does not shake?”
“No, Sir Marcus. It is very steady.”
“What a pretty hand it is! How taper your fingers are; but you have these dimples at the knuckles they say are such signs of cruelty.”
“Oh, Sir Marcus!”
“Yes, they say so. Nana Sahib had them, and that woman—there, there, you have given me thirty-seven.”
“No, I assure you, Sir Marcus, only thirty-five. I'm a practised hand at dropping medicine. My brother used to have violent headaches.”
“And you always measured his drops, did you?”
“Always. I 'm quite a clever nurse, I assure you.”
“Oh, dear! do you say so?” And as he laid down his glass he looked at her with an expression of interest and admiration, which pushed her gravity to its last limit.
“I don't believe a word about the cruelty they ascribe to those dimples. I pledge you my word of honor I do not,” said he, seriously.