“I don’t think I shall believe that,” said the Resident, banteringly; but as he spoke she looked up at him so searchingly that even he, the middle-aged man of the world, felt disconcerted, and rather welcomed the coming of the little rosy-faced doctor, who advanced on tiptoe, and with a look of mock horror in his face, as he said, softly:
“Let me come here, my dear. Spread one of your dove-wings over me to ensure peace. Madam is wroth with her slave, and I dare not go near her.”
“Why, what have you been doing now, doctor?” said Grey, with mock severity.
“Heaven knows, my dear. My name is Nor—I mean Henry—but it ought to have been Benjamin, for I have always got a mess on hand, lots of times as big as anyone else’s mess. I’m a miserable man.”
Meanwhile the conversation had been continued between the doctor’s lady and Chumbley, till the former began to fidget about, to the great amusement of the latter, who, knowing the lady’s weakness, lay back with half-closed eyes, watching her uneasy glances as they followed the doctor, till after a chat here and a chat there, he made his way to the couch by Grey Stuart, and began to speak to her, evidently in a most earnest way.
“She’s as jealous as a Turk,” said Chumbley to himself; and he tightened his lips to keep from indulging in a smile.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Chumbley,” said Mrs Bolter at last.
“No trouble, Mrs Bolter,” he replied, slowly, though his tone indicated that it would be a trouble for him to move.
“Thank you. I’ll bear in mind what you said about Helen Perowne.”
“And that nigger fellow? Ah, do!” said Chumbley, suppressing a yawn.