Turning his face to the window, and away from me he goes on rapidly:—-
"To tell you the truth, Phyllis, the chief reason for my staying here now is this: I made an appointment with Sir James Smithson to meet me in this house at four o'clock, to to take a look at you, and tell me his opinion as to your state of health."
"Sir James Smithson!" I cry, angrily. "Do you mean to tell me you have brought a doctor to torment me and make me miserable? This is what comes of marrying you. Oh, why was I so weak as to give in to your wishes? I won't see him—you may be sure of that."
"My darling, be reasonable," with the humblest entreaty. "It will only be for a few minutes. Directly he sees you, he will know the very thing that will set you up again. There is not, there cannot be, anything seriously wrong with you. Good advice is all you require. Why will you insist on—on—-"
"Dying," I put in, flippantly. "Why don't you say it? I shan't go to my grave a moment sooner through your mentioning the unpleasant word."
"You will see him, Phyllis?"
"Oh, if he is really coining, I suppose I must. But, I warn you, I shall take no nasty, stuffs, politely called tonics, and I will not go abroad."
In this amiable frame of mind I prepare myself to receive the great London doctor. As the servant ushers him into my room, I rise and bow, and am much relieved at finding myself in the presence of a small, homely, jolly-looking little man, with none of the signs of greatness about him.
He examines my chest, and asks a question or two that would certainly suggest themselves to an idiot. He thumps me here and pats me there, hums and haws, and finally says I want "tone."
"And change of air, my dear Mrs. Carrington, A little pleasure trip, now—just a little run through all the old spots we know so well—and then a winter at Pau or even a degree further south, is all that we want, eh?"