“But they used to do without me, doctor,” said Grey, smiling.
“Exactly, my dear; but now that they have become used to the luxury of your presence they will not do without it again. No, my dear; you must not turn ill. Ergo, as Shakspere’s clown says, you must not fret. Let’s hope, my dear, that all will come right yet.”
“I will try and hope, doctor,” said Grey, quietly, “and I will not fret.”
“That’s right, little woman. Depend upon it, two such dashing fellows as Chumbley and friend Hilton will not drop out of sight like stones thrown down a well. They’ll turn up again some day. Good-bye. Take care of my little wifie: she’s the only one I’ve got, you know,” he added, laughingly. “Going to see her now?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“When is she going to leave Perowne?”
“He is not fit to leave at present,” said Grey, shaking her head.
“Then I suppose we must stay,” said the doctor, parting from Grey with quite a parent’s solicitude; and then he stood watching her as she went beneath the shady trees.
“That little lassie is fretting about one of those chaps,” said the doctor; “I’ll be bound she is. She wouldn’t turn pale and red, and grow thin and weak, because Helen Perowne has disappeared. I wonder whether it’s big Chumbley. Well, we shall see. Now about my projects.”
He walked slowly homeward and entered the snug cottage-like place, which was the very pattern of primness, and day by day grew more like to the place where he had first set eyes upon his wife.