“I’m not, Fred,” she cried angrily.
“Oh yes, you are, old lady. You say I don’t understand your complaint; it’s conscience.”
“It is not, sir. I’ve nothing on my conscience at all.”
“I don’t believe you, auntie,” he cried banteringly. “You must have been a wicked old flirt.”
“It is false, sir; and I don’t hold with doctors being young and handsome.”
“No; I twig. Repentance. You used to go and see one when you were young, and give him guineas to feel your pulse.”
“How can you say such wicked things, Fred?” cried the old lady, turning scarlet. “But I will say it now. I’m sure it’s not right for you to be seeing all these fine fashionable ladies, scores of them, every day.”
“Do take her upstairs, Laury,” said the doctor, merrily. “Help her, Bel dear. You hear; I’m a horribly wicked man, and so fascinating that the ladies of Society flock to see me. Now, I appeal to you, dear. Did you ever hear such a wicked, suspicious old woman?”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t, Fred,” sobbed the lady in question. “I only spoke for your good. But it can’t last long now; and when I’m dead and gone you’ll be sorry for all you’ve said.”
“Poor old darling!” said the doctor, affectionately; “she sha’n’t have her feelings hurt. Now then, toddle up to the drawing-room. Lie down a bit; and have an early cup of tea, Laury.”