“Oh, oh, who is that?” said a nervous and respectful voice; he could not remember where he had heard its tones before. Something moved in the twilight of an adjoining room. He replied, “State doctor, ridden over to enquire, very little English,” slipped the letters into his pocket, and to show that he had free entry to the Guest House, struck the piano again.
Ralph Moore came into the light.
What a strange-looking youth, tall, prematurely aged, the big blue eyes faded with anxiety, the hair impoverished and tousled! Not a type that is often exported imperially. The doctor in Aziz thought, “Born of too old a mother,” the poet found him rather beautiful.
“I was unable to call earlier owing to pressure of work. How are the celebrated bee-stings?” he asked patronizingly.
“I—I was resting, they thought I had better; they throb rather.”
His timidity and evident “newness” had complicated effects on the malcontent. Speaking threateningly, he said, “Come here, please, allow me to look.” They were practically alone, and he could treat the patient as Callendar had treated Nureddin.
“You said this morning——”
“The best of doctors make mistakes. Come here, please, for the diagnosis under the lamp. I am pressed for time.”
“Aough——”
“What is the matter, pray?”