“I am glad to see you,” said Scarlett. “Why didn’t you say you were coming, and meet me at the station?”
“Didn’t know I was coming till the last moment.—Will you give me a bit of dinner, Lady Scarlett?”
“Will we give you a bit of dinner?” cried Sir James. “Just hark at him! There come along; never mind the grapes. I say, how’s the practice—improving?”
“Pooh! No. I shall never get on. I can’t stick to their old humdrum ways. I want to go forward and take advantage of the increased light science gives us, and consequently they say I’m unorthodox, and the fellows about my place won’t meet me in consultation.”
“Well, you always were a bit of a quack, old boy,” said Scarlett laughing.
“Always, always. I accept the soft impeachment. But is a man to run the chariot of his life down in the deeply worn ruts made by his ancestors? I say, let us keep to the rut when it is true and good; but let us try and make new, hard, sensible tracks where we can improve upon the old. It is my honest conviction that in the noble practice of medicine a man may—ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Just look at your husband’s face, Lady Scarlett,” cried their visitor, bursting into a hearty, uncontrollable fit of honest, contagious laughter.
“My face!” said Sir James. “Why, of course I hurry back home for country enjoyment, and you begin a confounded lecture on medical science. I’m quite well, thank you, doctor, and won’t put out my tongue.”
“Well? Yes, you always are well,” said the other.—“I never saw such a man as your husband, Lady Scarlett; he is disgustingly robust and hearty. Such men ought to be forced to take some complaint. Why, if there were many of them, my profession would become bankrupt.”
“You must be faint after your walk, Doctor Scales,” said Lady Scarlett. “Come in and have a cup of tea and a biscuit; it is some time yet to dinner.”
“Thanks. But may I choose for myself?”