“My dearest girl, it is the delightful magic of your breath. I feel it—from this little patch, it goes through and through all my blood. I’m drinking champagne all over,” cried the impassioned patient.
“La! Sir Arthur, how can you?” cried Agatha.
“When I say champagne, I mean nectar’s nothing to it. What a beautiful surgeon!” and Sir Arthur took Agatha’s hand, and pressed it in his wounded palm,—pressing the patch to make the operation perfect. “Dear me!” and the gentleman feigned sudden surprise, “that I should be near forgetting it!”
“Forgetting what, Sir Arthur?” asked the ingenuous maid.
“The fee, sweet girl; the fee,” and Sir Arthur, quite ere the young lady was aware of his intention, pressed his lips to her hand—to the hand that was rapidly snatched away as from the touch of a nettle. “And now, my dear little leech—when I say leech, I mean my blooming cherub—when do you think the hand will be fit to go to church?”
“I should say, Sir Arthur, that the lady herself, whoever she may be, could best answer such a strange question.” Here Agatha tried to trill a careless note or two.
Sir Arthur very much enjoyed the pretty confusion of Agatha, and was highly delighted by the torment that, in the courage new to himself, he had, he was sure of it, inflicted upon Miss Candituft. It was really capital recreation, excellent sport, at one and the same time to play with the hearts of two women. And one such a pretty little simpleton—the other such a high-topping task-mistress! The baronet felt proud of himself. And then he thought of his face, his figure; and took the incident as a matter of course. How could it be otherwise?
“You can’t predict the time?” and Sir Arthur gaily returned to the question.
“Haven’t an idea,” said Agatha; “no, not an idea.”
“At all events, then, you will see the patient every day?” Whereupon the baronet would look as though he had all his heart in his eyes.