“God bless you, my dear lad, for wanting to come and see me,” he said. “Now, is there anything you want? I shall send Dr. Thaxter to you as soon as he leaves your aunt.”
Dr. Thaxter was a merry, rosy-faced little man with a manner so reassuring that one felt quite well directly, and in a few minutes he came bustling into the room.
“Ah, Mr. Challoner,” he said, “your father tells me you are a bit knocked up. Not uncommon in this spring weather. Quite right to lie down. There, put that under your tongue, and don’t bite it.”
He adjusted the thermometer and went chattering on.
“And you’ve walked over from Chartries with your uncle, have you? Fine place that, and a fine healthy situation. Of course, you only came down yesterday. I saw the account of your concert in the paper. Ah, I wish I had been there. Now, I think we’ve given the thermometer long enough. Thank you. And you feel rather——“
The little doctor stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence when he saw what was recorded on it.
“You have a headache, I think your father said.”
“I have nothing else, I think,” said Martin.
Dr. Thaxter drew a chair close to the sofa, and sat down, looking at him very closely.
“Ah, yes; that is to be expected with a little fever. You are rather feverish. Now, when did you begin to feel ill? When did you first feel a headache? Try to tell me all about it.”