“But will you prescribe? Shall I take anything?”
“Bah! Stuff! Doctor’s stuff,” he added, laughing. “My dear boy, that dearly beloved, credulous creature, the human being, is never happy unless he is taking bottles and bottles of physic, and boxes and boxes of pills. Look at the fortunes made by it. Human nature will not believe that it can be cured without medicine, when in most cases it can. Why, my dear boy, your daily food is your medicine, your mental and bodily food. There, be off, go and enjoy the society of your dear little wife. Go and row her up the river, or drive her in the park; go in the country and pick buttercups, and run after butterflies, and eat bread-and-butter; sleep well, live well and innocently, and believe in the truest words ever written: ‘Care killed the cat!’ Don’t let it kill you.”
“No, I can’t afford to let it kill me,” said Huish, smiling.
“Never mind your sore finger, my boy; everybody has got a sore place, only they are divided into two classes: those who show them, and those who do not so much as wear a stall. Good-bye; God bless you, my boy! I wish I had your youth and strength, and pretty wife, and then—”
“Then what, doctor?” said Huish, smiling, and looking quite himself.
“Why, like you, you dog, I should not be satisfied. Be off; I shall come and see you soon. Where’s your address? Love to my little Gertrude; and John, tell her if—eh?—by-and-by—”
“Nonsense!” cried Huish, flushing with pleasure. “I shall tell her no such thing.”
“You will,” said the doctor, grinning. “Oh, that’s the address, eh? Westbourne Road. Good-bye.”
“I don’t understand him,” said the doctor thoughtfully, as soon as he was alone. “He is himself to-day; last time he was almost brutal. Heaven help him, poor fellow! if—No, no; I will not think that. But he is terribly unhinged at times.”