“Oh, thank you, yes,” cried the doctor, flushing with pleasure. “So good of you. Can I do anything? Let me see that your horses are properly put up.”
“Oh, no, no, no, the coachman will see to that, I could not think of troubling you.”
“Trouble?” said the doctor, with what was intended for an intense gaze full of meaning. “Don’t talk of trouble, Lady Tilborough, when you know.”
“Yes, I know that I am full of anxiety about my mare, and in no humour for listening to nonsense, so hold your tongue. Oh, here’s that dreadful man again.”
For the visitor to the Denes of that morning, minus his little white mongrel, but flourishing his pack of race-cards, suddenly appeared at the window with: “Success to your ladyship, and may yer win every race! You’ll buy a few c’rect cards of Dandy Dinny, the only original purveyor of—”
“Get out, you scoundrel!” cried the doctor, fiercely.
“Cert’ny, my noble doctor; but you’ll buy a c’rect card of—”
He did not finish, for the doctor threw a coin quickly out of the window, and the wretched-looking lout rushed to field it, before he was outpaced.
“Poor wretch!” said Lady Tilborough. “But that was very nice of you. But there, don’t follow me—now.”
She walked off quickly, and the doctor drew a quick breath.