“Poor old fellow!” he muttered; “nearly a hundred years old, and clinging to life more tightly than ever. Believes he saw something, of course. Not fit to go out alone. But he’ll pull round, and perhaps last for years. Wonderful constitution, but also an exemplification of my pet theory. Humph! coming out of church. Well, I must meet ’em, I suppose. Hallo! what’s going to happen? Has Salis converted the pair of reprobates? Morning, Squire; morning, Mr Candlish.”
He shook hands—professionally, as he called it—with the young squire and his brother, who were just out of church, and walked slowly on with them, discussing the hunt, election matters, and the state of the country.
“Why don’t you hunt more, doctor?” said the squire, a florid, fine-looking man, singularly like his brother, but more athletic of build.
“Want of time,” said the doctor good-humouredly. “Too many irons in the fire.”
“You work too hard. But look here—don’t be offended; I’ve always a spare mount or two when you are disposed for a gallop.”
“Thanks; I’ll ask one of these days—which never come,” the doctor added to himself. “And now, good-day.”
“No, no; come on, and have a bit of dinner with us—early dinner to-day.”
“Thanks—no; I’ve a patient or two to see, and I want a word with the parson.”
“We don’t,” said the squire; “eh, Tom? We’ve had ours.”
Tom Candlish scowled.