"I know too well how highly Mamma thinks of you, John," said Ethel, prettily.
"Well, I admit it—I do admire you immensely—I admire your power, your position, your ability to make an income—a large income, sitting comfortably in an arm chair. And then there is such solidity in a doctor's profession—people are always ill."
"Mamma is ill herself," broke in Lady Ethel, "and that is why we have intruded to-day."
"I hope it is nothing serious, my dear Duchess."
"How sweet of you! Ah, I am a martyr! I have hay fever to such a distressing extent that I am positively ashamed to go into society."
Her daughter laughed.
"We were at the Opera last night, and Mamma's sneezes were most mal-à-propos. It was very embarrassing."
"Yes, I am convinced that Romeo glowered at me, and at church on Sunday it was such a charming sermon, so encouraging and tactful, I sneezed violently in the man's best moments. At my age I cannot consent to become a public infliction, yet I feel I am a nuisance."
"Mamma said, as soon as we got home—'I shall go and consult Sir John,'" cooed Ethel.
"And now you can cure me?" The Duchess looked anxiously into the grave face opposite.