“Well—er—yes—no—hardly, because I’ve never put it to her plump. But you know what women are—sealskins, a carriage, bit o’ jewellery, and their own way. Why, of course she does; did you ever know a woman as didn’t want to marry? They often say so, but—you know. There, say the word: I’ll just go in and see her, and it’ll be a good job for all of us, and I shall go away with the day fixed.”
“No, Mr Poynter,” said the doctor gravely; “I have been a medical man for thirty years—a great student, but I must frankly confess that I do not know what women are. As to my daughter, she is of an age to judge for herself, and when she accepts a man for her husband—”
“I say, hold hard; there’s nothing on, is there?”
“You have told me that you love my child.”
“Like all that, doctor. But you know what I mean: old lover, prior attachment, and that sort of thing.”
“As far as I know, there has never been any attachment. Richmond is not like most girls.”
“Right doctor. She isn’t. That fetched me. Why, in her plain shabby things—”
The doctor winced. “She knocks my sister into fits, and Lyddy spends two-fifty a year in dressmaking and millinery, without counting jewellery and scent.”
“I may say,” continued the doctor, “that my daughter has always devoted herself to her brother and me.”
“Oh, yes, doctor, I’ve spotted that,” said the visitor, smoking furiously.