“Row? No!” said Scarlett with a shudder. “I never go on the water now. My left wrist is so weak, I am afraid I have somehow sprained one of the tendons. Don’t ask me to row.”
Lady Scarlett darted a second imploring look at the doctor, and he read it, as it seemed to him, to say: “Pray, don’t allude to the water;” but it was part of his endeavour to probe his friend’s mental wound to the quick, and he went on: “Laziness, you sybaritish old humbug! Very well, then; I’ll give up the rowing, and we’ll have the punt, and go and fish.”
“Impossible; the water is too thick, and I don’t think there are any baits ready.”
“How tiresome!” said the doctor. “I had made up my mind for a try at the barbel before I went back.”
“Before you went back?” cried Scarlett excitedly; and he caught his friend by the arm—“before you went back! What do you mean?”
“Mean, old fellow? Why, before I went back to London.”
“Why, you’re not thinking of going back—of leaving me here alone—of leaving me—me—er—” He trailed off, leaving his sentence unfinished, and stood looking appealingly at his friend.
“Why, my dear boy, what nonsense you are talking,” replied Scales. “Leave you—alone? Why, man, you’ve your aunt and your relatives. There’s your cousin out there now.”
“Yes, yes—of course—I know. But don’t go, Jack. I’m—I’m ill. I—I want you to set.—to set me right. Don’t—don’t go and leave me, Jack.”
“Now, there’s a wicked old impostor for you, Lady Scarlett!” cried the doctor, going close up to his friend, catching him by both shoulders, giving him a bit of a shake, and then patting him on the chest and back. “Not so stout as he was, but sound as a roach. Lungs without a weak spot. Heart pumping like a steam-engine—eyes clear—skin as fresh as a daisy—and tongue as clean. Get out, you sham Abram! pretending a pain to get me to stay!”