“Pah! not I. See enough of the miserable breed alive without seeing them dead. Good morning.”
He remounted his horse, and rode out of the village by the main road, to draw rein at a pretty ivy-covered villa, whose well-kept garden and general aspect betokened wealth and some refinement.
“Mrs Berens at home?” he asked, as the drag at a bell sent a silvery tinkle through the house.
The neat maid-servant drew back with a smile, and the doctor entered, and was shown into a pretty drawing-room, where he stood beating his boot with his riding-whip, and looking scornfully at the ornaments, lace, and gimcracks around.
Chapter Seven.
A Fresh Patient.
“I always feel like a fly,” the doctor muttered—“a fly alighted upon a spider’s web. The widow wants a husband. I wish some one would snap her up.”
“Ah! doctor—at last,” said a pleasant voice, which sounded as if it had passed through swan’s-down, while a strong odour of violets helped the illusion.