“Many thanks to your sister for her compliment; and not forgetting your mother for hers, also. So your mother has given up ‘making tay on reasonable terms’?”
“’Cause people wouldn’t come.”
“And that is a sufficient reason, even if she had not another; which is, that she’s never out of hot water without boiling more. Doctor, you’re as mute as a fish. You told me how to cure Jane and the dogs, now tell me what’s the dose for a cat and a kitten?”
“A ha’p’orth of liver, cut into small pieces.”
“There’ll be no difficulty in getting that down their throats, anyhow.”
“Talking about liver, Mrs St. Felix, I once knew a friend of mine who cured some geese of a liver complaint.”
“Had they been long in the East Indies, poor creatures?”
“No, but they had been in a very hot climate. You see, he was over in France during the last peace, and he went to the baths at Montpellier for the benefit of his health. He lodged with an old Frenchman. Now, you see, Mrs St. Felix, in the south of France they have a custom of making certain pies, which are much esteemed, and are called pâtés de foie gras—that means livers of geese, in French.”
“It don’t sound much like livers in English, doctor; but never mind that, go on with your story.”
“Here’s a customer, Mrs St. Felix; serve him first, and then I will go on with my story.”