“Come in!” roared Chris, as impatiently as if he had answered half-a-dozen times.
“It’s only me, Mr Lisle,” said his landlady, “and I’m sure I beg your pardon for coming in; but it does worry me so to hear you walking up and down so in such agony. Now do be advised by me, sir; I’m getting on in years, and I’ve had some experience of such things.”
“Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Sarson; but, pray, don’t bother me now.”
“Indeed, no, sir, I won’t; but though I can’t help admiring the fortitude you show, it is more than I can bear to sit in my little room and hear you walking up and down in such pain. Now mark my word, Mr Lisle, sir, it’s not toothache.”
“No, no,” he said impatiently; “it is not toothache.”
“No, sir. Which well I know. It’s what the doctors call newrallergeer.”
“My dear Mrs Sarson—”
“No, no, my dear, don’t be cross with a poor woman whose only idea is to try and do you good. No one knows what it is better than I do. I’ve had your gnawing toothache, which is bad enough for anything; but your jig, jigging newrallergeer is ten times worse, and it makes me pity you, Mr Lisle.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs Sarson, I am greatly obliged to you, but—”
“Take my word for it, sir, ’tis your stomach, and you won’t be no better till you’ve had a tonic.”