“You—you go with me, Mary,” he said, staring.
“Yes, certainly.”
“But the thorns, and mud, and heat, and mosquitoes, my dear?”
“If they will not hurt you, Henry, they will not hurt me,” said the little lady.
“But they would hurt you, my dear. Of course I should like to have you, but it would be impossible! I shall only be away three days.”
“But the place is full of old stones and skins that smell atrociously, and wretched flies and beetles with pins stuck through their bodies, and I’m sure I can’t think why you want more.”
“For the learned societies in London, my dear. You forget that I am a corresponding member to several.”
“Oh, no, I don’t,” said Mrs Bolter. “I don’t forget that you make it an excuse for sitting up all night smoking and drinking cold whiskey and water, sir, because you have writing to do instead of coming to bed.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear,” he said, “you would be a perfect woman if you only cared for science.”