“He must be mad,” observed Mrs St. Felix, quietly.
“He flatters himself that you have given him encouragement. I asked him in what way; he says you always laugh at him.”
“True as the Bible—I can’t help laughing at such a droll figure as he makes of himself. Mercy on me! what are men made of? Well, Tom, I’m sure I ought to be flattered, for (let it be a secret between us, Tom) this is the second offer I have received within these twenty-four hours.”
“The doctor, I presume; Tom says that he is jealous.”
“I mention no names. This is all very foolish.”
“But you have not yet rejected both: Tom awaits his answer.”
“Tell him anything that you please. By-the-bye, you may just as well add that instead of taking the laudanum, he had better resort to his old remedy—of liquorice and water. It will look just as killing in the phial, and not be quite so fatal in its results.”
“I shall certainly execute your commission in as delicate a way as I possibly can.”
“Do, Tom, and pray let me hear no more of this nonsense, for, ridiculous as it may appear, it is to me very painful. Leave me now—I am nervous and low-spirited. Good bye. Come this evening with your sister, I shall be better then.”
Mrs St. Felix went into the back parlour, and I left the shop. I had turned the wrong way, almost forgetting to give Tom his answer, when I recollected myself, and returned to the doctor’s house.