“The peaches look very fine,” said her Ladyship, refusing to notice the remark—“much finer than mine, dear Lady Scarlett. My head-gardener says that some disease has attacked the leaves.”
“You should invite Doctor Scales over to treat the ailment,” said Aunt Sophia archly.—“My dear James, what is the matter?”
“It is too bad—it is disgraceful!” cried Scarlett, stamping his foot. “Because I am weak and ill, every one imposes on me. That old scoundrel has been neglecting everything.”
“What! Monnick?” cried Aunt Sophia.
“Yes. No one else has the key. Ah! here you are,” he said more angrily, “look, Kate, you ought to be more particular. These keys should be brought to you.”
“What is wrong, dear?” said Lady Scarlett anxiously, as she came down that side of the peach-house, closely followed by Prayle.
“Everything is wrong,” cried the unhappy man, gazing at her wildly. “I cannot bear it.” He hurried from the peach-house, followed by the doctor, who calmed him by degrees.
“Some of the best peaches stolen,” he cried. “It is too bad; I set such a store by them.”
“And I set such store by your recovery, old fellow,” said the doctor. “That was a wretched fit of temper; but it’s over now. Don’t worry about it, man; and now go and lie down till dinner-time.”
“No—no: I have no wish to—”