“Of course.”
“Then I have a lively recollection of a lady with whom I fell in love last time I was here.”
“A lady—fell in love?”
“Yes. Let me see,” said the visitor. “She is pretty well photographed upon my brain.”
“I say, Jack, old boy, what do you mean?” cried Scarlett.
“By your leave, sir,” said the doctor, waving one strong brown hand. “Let me see; she had large, full, lustrous, beaming eyes, which dwelt upon me kindly; her breath was odorous of the balmy meads—”
“Why, the fellow’s going to do a sonnet,” cried Scarlett. But the doctor paid no heed, and went on.
“Her lips were dewy, her mousy skin was glossy, her black horns curved, and as she ruminating stood—”
“Why, he means Dolly,” cried Lady Scarlett clapping her hands—“Jersey Dolly.—A glass of new milk, Doctor Scales?”
“The very culmination of my wishes, madam,” said the doctor, nodding.