“Bless her! Nice game she has had, Salis. General clear up, and my study turned upside down. Seen old Moredock?”
“Yes, went yesterday,” said the curate. “The old mail was lying down, and fretting because you were away. Said he knew he should die before you returned.”
“Stuff. He’ll live to a hundred; but I’ll go and see the old boy. There, now you’re laughing,” he said, turning to Mary; “now, don’t say Mrs Berens has been ill and wanted me.”
“Why not?” said Mary, with her pleasant face lighting up, and a slight flush coming into her soft cheeks. “I told you the place did not seem the same without you.”
“Mrs Berens met me twice, and sighed large sighs,” said the curate, laughing. “Hah! I wish they’d all be as anxious about their souls as they are about their bodies.”
“And they’re not, old fellow?” said the doctor.
“No. I begin to wish you were out of the place, North, for you are my hated rival.”
“Hartley!” said Mary reprovingly.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the doctor. “Jealous. Never mind, old fellow. It’ll all come right in the end. There, can’t stop. I’ve no end to do.”
“But how did you get on in London?”