“I never felt what it was to be truly happy until now.”
“Nonsense?” said the doctor loudly, after just finishing a very medical story—one he always told after his third glass of champagne, “I can assure you it is perfectly true. Good—isn’t it? She really did elope with her music-master. Fact,—twins.”
Several ladies looked shocked, for Lady Rigby, the stout mamma, an old patient, had laughed loudly, and then wiped her mouth with her lace handkerchief as if to take off the smile of which she felt rather ashamed, for her countenance afterwards looked preternaturally solemn.
The earl had escaped the usual supervision, and he also had partaken of a glass of champagne or two—or three—and he thoroughly enjoyed the doctors story.
“It puts me in mind of one,” he said, with a chuckle. “You know it, doctor. If the ladies will excuse its being a little indelicate. Quite medical though, quite.”
“I am quite sure that Lord Barmouth would not say anything shocking,” said the stout mamma, and she began to utter little dry coughs, suggestive of mittens, and muffins, and tea.
“Of course not—of course not, I—I—I wouldn’t say it—say it on any consideration,” said his lordship, chuckling. “It—it—was about a friend of mine who built a house by Primrose Hill, he—he—he! It’s quite a medical story, doctor, over the railway, you know.”
“The old girl will be down upon him directly,” thought Tom.
“Capital story,” said the doctor, laughing, and glancing sidewise at her ladyship. “There’ll be an eruption directly,” he added to himself.
“He—he—he!” laughed his lordship; “her ladyship never lets me tell this story, does she, my dears?” he continued, smiling at his daughters, “but I assure you, ladies, it’s very innocent. I used to go and see him when he had furnished the place, over the railway, and every now and then there used to be quite a rumble and quiver when the trains went through the tunnel! Why, I said to him, one day—‘Why, my dear fellow, I—I—I’ eh?—eh?—eh? Bless my heart what was it I said to him, Tom?”