He was seated where he could see the window, and his handsome face looked vacant and strange as he turned his head to Elizabeth, who was waiting on him in her mistress’s absence.
“Is that Rich?” he said feebly.
“No, doctor, it’s me, come for a bit of advice,” cried Poynter. “Here,” he said, turning to the maid, as he whisked his handkerchief round his hat, “you be off.”
Elizabeth left the room, wiping her eyes, and Poynter sat down beside the doctor, and shook hands.
“Why, I ought to feel your pulse now, and not you mine,” he said boisterously.
“Glad to see you, Mr Poynter. Pretty well, thank you. Is my Rich coming?”
“To be sure she is, old boy. Now I just want a cosy chat with you about Rich.”
“About Rich? Yes, yes.”
“You remember how I proposed for her?”
The doctor looked at him blankly; and shook his head. “Is Rich coming, Hendon?” he said.