“Oh; but that idea would be absurd.”
“I don’t know that, doctor, because, you see, it would be so true. There, there: don’t look cross. I am not an obstinate patient. Why, doctor, are you afraid of her?”
“No; I am more afraid of myself,” he said bitterly; “and I have some pride, Miss Raleigh.”
“Too much—far too much.—Do you know, doctor, I am turning match-maker in my old age?”
“A worthy pursuit, if you could make good matches.”
“Well, would it not be a good one between you and Lady Martlett?”
“Admirable!” he cried, in a bitterly ironical tone. “The union of a wealthy woman, who has a right to make a brilliant contract with some one of her own class, to a beggarly, penniless doctor, whose head is full of absurd crotchets.—Miss Raleigh, Miss Raleigh, where is your discrimination!”
“In my brains, I suppose,” said Aunt Sophia; “though I do not see how that portion of our organisation can make plans and plots.”
“Then you are plotting and planning to marry me to Lady Martlett.”
“It needed neither,” said Aunt Sophia. “You worked out the union yourselves. She is very fond of you.”