“It’s all rubbish, North. I’ve no time to give to fishing or gardening. As to the cigar, I might manage that.”
“Pills no use without the draught,” said the doctor.
“But you a doctor, and prescribe tobacco—a poison!”
“Does people good to poison them a little when they’re out of order.”
“But May grumbles as it is, and is never satisfied. What will he say if he hears of my smoking, and pottering about with a fishing-rod?”
“Tell May to mind his points at whist and leave us alone. There, I must be off. Take my advice, too, about the mare. I shall always hate her for the injury she did to poor Miss Salis here. Good-bye, both of you.”
“Stop a minute,” said the curate. “What about yourself?”
“Well, what about myself?”
“The great idea—the crotchet—the cr—”
“Well, say it—the craze, man! Every inventor is considered a lunatic till his invention works. Wait, my dear fellow—wait. I may astonish you yet. Good-bye, Miss Salis.”