While Topley shaved, Dengate made plans, and as soon as the operation was over he went back home, and what he called “cleaned hisself.” That is to say, he put on his best clothes, stuck a large showy flower in his button-hole, cocked his rather broad-brimmed hat on one side of his head, and went straight to Dr Grayson’s.
Maria opened the door, stared at the butcher, who generally came to the back entrance, admitted him, received his message, and went into the study, where the doctor was writing, and Dexter busily copying a letter in a fairly neat round hand, but could only on an average get one word and a half in a line, a fact which looked awkward, especially as Dexter cut his words anywhere without studying the syllables.
Dexter had just left off at the end of a line, and finished the first letters of the word toothache, leaving “toot” as his division, and taking a fresh dip of ink ready for writing “hache.”
“Don’t put your tongue out, Dexter, my boy.”
“All right,” said Dexter.
“And I would not suck the pen. Ink is not wholesome.”
“All right, I won’t,” said Dexter; and he put the nibs between his lips.
“Mr Dengate, sir,” said Maria.
“Dengate? What does he want, Maria? Let him see Mrs Millett or Miss Helen.”
Maria looked scornfully at Dexter, as if he had injured her in some way.