Cummings: No-o-o—but looking through you, nasty-like, as if you was on that operating table of his and he was going to cut you up. Nothing a man could rightly complain of, you understand, Mr. Bunter, just nasty looks. Not but what I will say he’s very correct. Apologizes if he’s been inconsiderate. But what’s the good of that when he’s been and gone and lost you your night’s rest?
Bunter: How does he do that? Keeps you up late, you mean?
Cummings: Not him; far from it. House locked up and household to bed at half-past ten. That’s his little rule. Not but what I’m glad enough to go as a rule, it’s that dreary. Still, when I do go to bed I like to go to sleep.
Bunter: What does he do? Walk about the house?
Cummings: Doesn’t he? All night. And in and out of the private door to the hospital.
Bunter: You don’t mean to say, Mr. Cummings, a great specialist like Sir Julian Freke does night work at the hospital?
Cummings: No, no; he does his own work—research work, as you may say. Cuts people up. They say he’s very clever. Could take you or me to pieces like a clock, Mr. Bunter, and put us together again.
Bunter: Do you sleep in the basement, then, to hear him so plain?
Cummings: No; our bedroom’s at the top. But, Lord! what’s that? He’ll bang the door so you can hear him all over the house.
Bunter: Ah, many’s the time I’ve had to speak to Lord Peter about that. And talking all night. And baths.