“Oh, I wish I was there now!”
“You are excited, madam,” said he, severely. “That is out of place—in a deliberative assembly.”
“No, no; only I want to be there, doing all this for my dear husband.”
“You are very excited; and it is my fault. You must be hungry too: you have come a journey. There will be a reaction, and then you will be hysterical. Your temperament is of that kind.”
He rang a bell and ordered his maid-servant to bring some beef-wafers and a pint of dry Champagne.
Lady Bassett remonstrated, but he told her to be quiet; “for,” said he, “I have a smattering of medicine, as well as of law and of human nature. Sir Charles must correspond with you. Probably he has already written you six letters complaining of this monstrous act—a sane man incarcerated. Well, that class of letter goes into a letter-box in the hall of an asylum, but it never reaches its address. Please take a pen and write a formula.” He dictated as follows:
“MY DEAR LOVE—The trifling illness I had when I came here is beginning to give way to the skill and attention of the medical gentlemen here. They are all most kind and attentive: the place, as it is conducted, is a credit to the country.”
Lady Bassett's eyes sparkled. “Oh, Mr. Rolfe, is not this rather artful?”
“And is it not artful to put up a letter-box, encourage the writing of letters, and then open them, and suppress whatever is disagreeable? May every man who opens another man's letter find that letter a trap. Here comes your medicine. You never drink champagne in the middle of the day, of course?”
“Oh, no.”