“Oh! come, that’s a comfort,” said the doctor. “What is it then about Helen Perowne?”
“I don’t like the way in which she is going on,” said Mrs Doctor, “and I am quite sure that no good will come of it. I don’t think there is any real harm in the girl.”
“Harm? No, I don’t think there is,” said Dr Bolter. “She’s very handsome, and she has been spoiled by flattery.”
“Administered by foolish men like someone we know,” said the lady.
“H’m! yes—well, perhaps so; but really she is too bad. The fellows seem to run mad after her.”
“Did you see her talking to the Rajah last night?”
“Yes, I saw her; and then poor Hilton began to singe his wings in the candle, and next week she will have somebody else. I know what I’d do if I had to prescribe for her.”
“And what might that be, sir?”
“I’d prescribe a husband, such a one as Harley—a firm, strong-minded, middle-aged man, who would keep a tight hand at the rein and bring her to her senses. I daresay she’d make a man a good wife, after all.”
“Perhaps so,” said Mrs Doctor, pursing up her lips; “but meantime, as you are not called upon to prescribe, what is to be done?”