“Well, always glad to see you, doctor—non-professionally,” said the squire; and they went on, while North turned back to meet Salis, wondering why Tom Candlish had condescended to come to church.
“To stare at Leo, I’ll be sworn, and Salis must have felt it. I’ll be bound to say he made a dozen mistakes in the service this morning through that fellow coming. And, as for the squire—that young man drinks, and he had better look out, or Moredock will have a grand funeral to attend.”
“Good morning, doctor. Were you coming to see me?”
“Ah, Mrs Berens! I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you.”
“No, doctor, you never do seem to see me. You forget your most anxious patients,” said the lady pathetically.
“But, really, you did not send me word.”
“No, I did not send you word. I lived in hope of your coming.”
“Thank goodness!” thought the doctor. “This woman is growing dangerous.”
His pious ejaculation was consequent upon the fact that his friend, the curate, was approaching in company with Leo.
Mrs Berens became aware of the fact at the same time, and though she uttered no pious ejaculation, she was equally pleased, for two reasons.