“Heigh-ho-ha-hum!” sighed, or rather half-yawned Jack Scales, as he turned in at the window very slowly and thoughtfully, and for the moment did not see that the room was occupied.
Lady Martlett put her own interpretation upon the noise made by the doctor—she mentally called it a sigh, and her heart gave a satisfied throb as she told herself that he was touched—that her triumph was near at hand when she would humble him; and then—well, cast him off.
“Ah, Lady Martlett, you here?” he said coolly.—“What a lovely day!”
“Yes, doctor; charming,” she said, softening her voice.
“And this is a lovely place.—Your home, the Court, is, of course, far more pretentious.”
“I was not aware that there was anything pretentious about Leigh Court,” said Lady Martlett coldly.
“Well, pretentious is perhaps not the word,” said Jack, “I mean big and important, and solid and wealthy, and that sort of thing.”
“Oh, I see,” said Lady Martlett.
“And what I meant was, that this place is so much more charming, with its undulating lawn, its bosky clumps of evergreens, the pillar roses, and that wonderful clematis of which poor Scarlett is so fond.”
“You speak like a house-agent’s catalogue. Doctor Scales,” said Lady Martlett scornfully.