Chapter Ten.
The Doctor Prescribes.
“There, my dear, I shall give you up now,” said North one day, about three months after the accident. “Ah! you look bad!”
Mary was downstairs, lying back in an easy-chair, and she coloured slightly, and there was a faint gathering of wrinkles on her white forehead at his easy-going, paternal way.
“Yes,” said Mary. “Do advise him, doctor. He is far from well.”
“Yes; he’s a bad colour,” said North bluffly.
“Hadn’t you better suggest that I should be painted?” said the curate tartly.
“Another bad sign,” said North, with a good-tempered look at Mary. “He talks to his old friend in that way. Bile, Miss Salis—bile.”
“It’s bother, not bile,” cried the curate sharply. “I beg your pardon, old fellow.”
“Granted. But what’s the matter?”