“You will excuse me, Mr Wilton,” said Pierce, coldly; “I am busy this morning—a patient. I wish you good day.”
“No, you don’t. I’ve had trouble enough to find you, so no cold shoulder, please. It’s no good, for I won’t lose sight of you now. I say: it was mean to cut away from Northwood like you did.”
“Will you have the goodness to point out which road you mean to take, Mr Wilton,” said Leigh, wrathfully, “and then I can choose another?”
“No need, Doctor; your road’s my road, and I’ll stick to you like a ‘tec’.”
Leigh’s eyes literally flashed.
“There, it’s of no use for you to be waxy, Doctor, because it won’t do a bit of good. I’ve got a scent like one of my retrievers; and I’ve run you down at last.”
“Am I to understand then, sir, that you intend to watch me?” said Leigh, sternly.
“That’s it. Of course I do. I’ve been at it ever since you left the old place. When I make up my mind to a thing I keep to it—stubborn as pollard oak.”
“Indeed,” said Leigh, sarcastically; “and now you have found me, pray what do you want?”
“Jenny!” said Claud, with the pollard oak simile in voice and look.