The maid disappeared, giving the door so loud a shut that it sounded almost like a bang, when the doctor began to complain of fatigue, and being worn out, and Mrs Hardon, who wished to propitiate, offered to go.
“Do, please, my love,” murmured the doctor, in the most gentle of tones—the professional.
Mrs Hardon slightly drew down the corners of her mouth in a contemptuous grimace as she left the room, but returned in a few minutes looking pale and scared; and then she carefully closed the door after her.
“It’s quite taken my breath away!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon. “He frightened me: what made you tell me that Septimus was dead?”
“Well, isn’t he?” said the doctor, shuffling hastily round in his chair.
“Dead?” exclaimed Mrs Hardon. “If he is, it’s his ghost that has come down: that’s all.”
“Come down?” cried the doctor, turning of a dirty pallid hue.
“And he’s walked all the way from London. And you never saw such a poor, deplorable-looking object in your life. He looks twenty years older, that he does.”
“What does he want?” cried the doctor, panting in spite of his efforts to keep down his emotion.
“Says he’s come down to see his father, and to attend to his affairs.”