Volume Two—Chapter Two.
Sir James Scarlett’s Nerves.
“Come, old fellow; I think you are better now,” said the doctor, as he took Scarlett’s arm and walked with him down the garden. They had just been standing upon the lawn, where, in a group, Lady Scarlett, Lady Martlett, Naomi, and Aunt Sophia were with Arthur Prayle. The doctor had been irritated, though he would not own it, by the cool, haughty indifference of Lady Martlett, and it had cost him an effort to tear his thoughts from his own affairs to the troubles of his friend; but upon twice waking up to the fact that Scarlett was growing excited, and that he had displayed a disposition to what the doctor called “break out,” he suggested a stroll down the grounds.
Scarlett eagerly agreed; and after a solemn exchange of courtesies with Lady Martlett, the doctor took his friend away.
“Confound her!” muttered the doctor; “the others must have wondered whether I was going to hand her out for a minuet. I wish the woman would keep away.”
They strolled about for some few minutes, and twice came to a halt; but the first time, as they seated themselves in a couple of garden-chairs, the voice of Arthur Prayle came in a low deep murmur from the lawn as he was saying something earnestly, and the doctor saw his patient’s eyes flash, and then, us he watched him curiously, contract in an unpleasant way.
“Prayle seems to be working very hard for you, old fellow.”
“Yes.”
“You trust him, I suppose, with all the settlement of your London affairs?”