“What does the Doctor say?”
“Always the same—always the same: ‘You’re getting better.’”
“That’s right; so you are,” said the Doctor, who had just come to the door.—“Ah, Mr Drummond, you here?”
“Yes, sir. Cheering poor old Bracy up a bit.”
“That’s right. How’s your wound?”
“Horrible nuisance, sir.”
“Hum! ha! I should like to have; a look at it, but I suppose it would not be etiquette. All the same, etiquette or no, if it does not begin to mend soon come to me.”
“I will, sir. Good-afternoon. Ta, ta, Bracy, old man. Keep up your spirits.”
“You needn’t go, Mr Drummond,” said the Doctor. “I can’t stay many minutes, and you can talk to him after I’m gone. Well, Bracy, my lad, wounds easier?”
“No. Worse.”