They strolled down between two great banks of the grand flowering shrubs, now rich with the glossy green of their summer growth, and sat down, when a new trouble assailed Scarlett, and he sprang up impatiently. “Hah!” he exclaimed. “I can’t bear it.”
“Why, what’s the matter now?”
“Those blue-bottles buzzing about me like that; just as if they expected I should soon be carrion.”
“Pooh! What an absurd idea! But you are wrong, old fellow, as usual. I am the more fleshy subject, and they would be after me. Let’s go down yonder under the firs.”
“Why? What is there there, that you should choose that part?” said Scarlett, with a quick suspicious glance.
“Fir-trees, shade, seats to sit down,” said the doctor quietly.
“Yes, yes, of course; that will do,” said Scarlett hastily. “Let’s go there.”
They strolled along a sun-burned path; and the doctor had just made the remark that commences this chapter, when there was a rustling noise among the shrubs, a whining yelp, and Scarlett’s favourite dog, a little white fox-terrier, rushed out at them, to leap up at its master, barking with delight. It came upon them so suddenly, that Scarlett uttered a wild cry, caught at the doctor’s arm, screened himself behind his sturdy body, and stood there trembling like a leaf.
“Why, it’s only Fritz!” cried the doctor, smiling.
“He startled me so—so sudden,” panted Scarlett. “Drive the brute away.”