She sat thinking for a few moments as the girls left the room, and then settled herself in her chair with a sigh.
“It is all nonsense,” she said to herself; “Arthur is like me—too old now ever to let such folly trouble his breast.”
A loud snap made her start as Dr Bolter closed his cigar-case after spending some time in selecting a cigar, one which he had made up his mind to smoke in the garden.
Just then their eyes met, and the little lady rose, walked to her writing-table, took a brass box from a drawer, struck a match, and advanced with it in her fingers towards the doctor.
He replaced his cigar-case, and held out one hand for the match, took it, and blew it out before throwing it from the open window.
“Was it not a good one?” said Miss Rosebury, beginning to tremble.
“No,” he said, quickly, as he thrust the cigar into his waistcoat pocket; “and I could not smoke here.”
As he spoke he took the little lady’s hand in his left and looked pleadingly in her face.
“Dr Bolter!” she exclaimed; and there was anger in her tone.
“Don’t—don’t,” he exclaimed, huskily, and as if involuntarily his forefinger was pressed upon her wrist—“don’t be agitated Miss Rosebury. Greatly accelerated pulse—almost feverish. Will you sit down?”