“I think it is probably rheumatic,” she added.
Jeannie rang the bell, and went to the table to write a note.
“Now, Miss Phœbe,” she said, “you are going to see the doctor here and now. Don’t say you won’t, for it is no use. I am writing to Dr. Maitland; he will be at home by now, and I am sure he will come here at once. You see, in this way your sister will not know.”
The poor lady leaned back in her chair, almost with relief.
“It is very kind of you,” she said. “And indeed I think Clara must see if it went on any longer.”
Jeannie gave the note to the butler, and when he had left the room:
“I am sure it is wise, Miss Phœbe,” she said. “Why, if I or Arthur have an ache in our little finger we fill the house with surgeons. There is never anything the matter, and they tell us so. Now Dr. Maitland will be here in ten minutes or less. You shall go to my room, and he will look at you there.”
“It is very kind of you,” said Phœbe; “and you will not tell Clara?”
“Never without your consent,” said Jeannie. “Come, let us go upstairs.”
Dr. Maitland was in, and in ten minutes he was at Bolton Street. He was shown into the drawing-room, and Jeannie came down stairs to him.