“Certainly not, Mr Poynter.”
“And you’ve no objection to me, doctor?”
“N–no—I—that is, Mr Poynter, I look upon this as a matter for my daughter to decide.”
“Of course, doctor. Well, I’ll just finish my cigar and grog, and then I’ll go and put it to her, plump and plain; and, as I said before, it’ll be a fine day’s work for us all.”
The doctor sighed.
“I say, you know,” continued his visitor, with the wrinkles coming about his eyes, “it was all a dodge of mine.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“There wasn’t anything the matter with me when I came.”
“Nothing whatever,” said the doctor, nodding acquiescence.
“What! you knew that?”