“I fear it would be,” said Grey; “but the case is so urgent, doctor.”
“Terribly urgent, my dear; but like some of the urgent cases with which I have to deal, I have to do all I can, and then leave the rest to nature. Let us hope, my dear, that nature will work a cure for us here, and that one of these days they will all turn up again alive and well.”
“Oh, doctor, do you think so?” cried Grey, who was ready to cling to the slightest straw of promise.
“I don’t say that I think so,” he replied, “I say I hope so.”
Grey sighed.
“There, there, there, I forbid it,” said the doctor, with assumed anger. “We cannot have you fretting yourself ill, my dear, for we want your help. My little wife could not get on at all without you to cheer and comfort her; and I believe if it were not for you poor Perowne would go distraught. Then there’s your father, who looks upon you as the one object of his life; and lastly, there’s your doctor.”
“You, dear Doctor Bolter,” said Grey, smiling in his face.
“Yes; that is the person I mean, my dear. Do you want to disgrace him?”
“Disgrace you, doctor?” said Grey, wonderingly.
“Yes, by turning weak and delicate and ill after all I have done to keep you sound and well. No, Grey Stuart, my dear; there are some people in this busy world of ours who must never break down, never want rest, and never be ill in any shape; those people are doctors like me—and clever, useful little women like you. Depend upon it, my dear, if you were to turn poorly there would be a regular outcry upon the station, and everyone would be finding out your value.”