“Well, tell him to go to Keening’s. I won’t see him—I won’t see him. My nerves won’t bear it; they have not recovered from the last shock yet, let alone that horrible night of the robbery.”
“But you’d better see him,” said Mrs Hardon, whose woman’s heart was touched by her visitor’s aspect.
“No, no; I can’t—I can’t bear it, and it’s better that I should not;” and as he spoke there was no dissimulation in the doctor’s words or mien: he was undoubtedly very much moved.
“But you must see him; and besides, it will seem so strange if it’s known in the town that you sent him away like that.”
“Well—er—well—perhaps I had better,” said the doctor; “where is he? I’ll go to him, or—no, let him come in here; but put away the wine first.”
Mrs Hardon took no notice of the last remark, but went out, and returned directly with Septimus Hardon, footsore, dusty, and travel-stained.
“Good-evening, Mr Septimus,” said the doctor, in the tone of voice he had heard so often from his patients, and as he spoke he slightly bent forward, but lay back again directly in his chair, without offering his visitor a seat. “Good-evening, Mr Septimus. I suppose we must say Hardon?”
“If you please, uncle,” said Septimus, somewhat startled at his strange reception—a reception more chilling even than in his diffidence he had anticipated.
“Sit down, Septimus, you look tired,” said Mrs Hardon, pouring out a glass of wine for the visitor, who drank it with avidity, for he was faint and agitated, feeling somewhat like the Prodigal, though this was no prodigal’s welcome.
“How do you find business, Mr Septimus?” said the doctor, perspiring freely, but now speaking calmly and slowly.