“Which it’s taking quite a liberty, Mr Lisle, sir,” said his landlady, who had come for the fifth time into his room; “but if you would let me send for Doctor Asher, it would ease my mind—indeed it would.”
“Asher? Send for him? Are you ill?”
“I? No, my dear boy, but you are. You are quite feverish. It’s terrible to see you. Not a bit of dinner have you tasted, and you’ve been walking up and down the room as if you had the toothache, for hours. Now, do trust to me, my dear, an old motherly body like me; I’d better send for him.”
“My dear Mrs Sarson, he could not do me the least good,” said Chris, smiling at the troubled face before him. “It was a fit of worry, that’s all; but it’s better now—all gone. There, you see, I’m quite calmed down now, and you shall prescribe for me. Give me some tea and meat together.”
“But are you really better, my dear?”
“Yes; quite right now.”
“And quite forgive me for calling you my dear, Mr Lisle, sir? You are so like my son out in New Zealand, and you have been with me so long.”
“Forgive you? Yes.”
“That’s right,” said the woman, beginning to beam; and hurrying in and out she soon had a comfortable-looking and tempting meal spread waiting before her lodgers eager eyes, and he made a determined attack upon that before him.
“That’s more like you, Mr Lisle,” she said, smiling her satisfaction.