“How’s North?” he said.
“Oh, very well, I believe. Dr North and I do not meet very often. A clever young man, though—a very clever young man.”
“Humph! Don’t believe in him,” said Tom Candlish. “But he has been very ill.”
“Little touch of sunstroke, or something of that kind, sir. I saw his patients for two days only; then he was about again.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Tom Candlish. “Doctor, I’m low to-day; I must have some champagne.”
“My dear sir! out of the question.”
“Brandy, then!”
“Worse and worse.”
“But I’m sinking. This cursed low feeling is horrible.”
“Well, well!” said the doctor smoothly, as, after a moment’s consideration, he felt that the wine would only throw his patient back for a few days, and give him a longer period for attendance; “perhaps a drop—say, half a glass—would not hurt you, but I would not exceed half a glass; champagne glass, mind. Good morning.”