As Miss Twettenham entered, the little doctor was going on tiptoe, with open hands, towards the window, where he dexterously caught a large fly, and after placing it conveniently between the finger and thumb of his left hand, he drew a lens from his waistcoat pocket, and began examining his prize.
“Hum! Yes,” he said, in a low, thoughtful tone, “decided similarity in the trunk. Eyes rather larger. Intersection of—I beg your pardon! Miss Twettenham?”
The lady bowed, and looked rather dignified. Catching flies and examining them in her drawing-room by means of a lens was an unusual proceeding, especially when there were so many much worthier objects for examination in the shape of pupils’ drawings and needlework about the place.
Miss Twettenham softened though directly, for the manners of Dr Bolter were, she owned, perfect. Nothing could have been more gentlemanly than the way in which he waited for her to be seated, and then, after a chatty introduction, came to the object of his visit.
“You see, my dear madam, it happens so opportunely my being in England. Perowne and Stuart are both old friends and patients, and of course they did not like the idea of their daughters being entrusted to comparative strangers.”
“So you will be friend, guardian, and medical attendant all in one?” said Miss Twettenham, smiling.
“Exactly,” said the little doctor. “I have never seen them; they are quite schoolgirls—children, I suppose?”
“Ye-es,” said Miss Twettenham, who had a habit of measuring a young lady’s age by its distance from her own, “they are very young.”
“No joke of a task, my dear madam, undertaking the charge of two young ladies—and I hope from my heart they are too young and plain to be attractive—make it difficult for me.”
There was a bright red spot on each of Miss Twettenham’s cheeks, and she replied with a little hesitation: