“O yes; I know,” said Sir James, catching him up. “‘Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day.’ But you have not dined yet, old fellow; and you shall have such a salad! My own growing; Kitty’s making. Come along now, and let’s look round. Prayle’s here.”
“Is he?” said the doctor, raising his eye-brows slightly, and his tone seemed to say: “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, poor fellow; he’s working too hard, and I brought him down to stay a bit. Now you’ve come, and we’ll have—”
“No, no; I must get back. None of your unmanly temptations. I’m going to catch the last up-train to-night.”
“One of your patients in a dangerous state, I suppose?” said Scarlett, with a humorous glance at his wife.
“No: worse luck! I’ve no patients waiting for me. I say, old fellow, you haven’t a rich old countess about here—baroness would do—one who suffers from chronic spleen, as the French call it? Get me called in there, you know, and make me her confidential attendant.”
“Why, there’s Lady Martlett,” said Scarlett, with another glance at his wife which plainly said: “Hold your tongue, dear.”
“Widow lady. Just the body. I dare say she’ll be here before long.”
“Oh, but I’m off back to-night.”
“Are you?” said Scarlett,—“Kitty, my dear, Jack Scales is your prisoner. You are the châtelaine here, and as your superior, I order you to render him up to me safe and sound for transport back to town this day month. Why, Jack, you promised to help me drain the pond. We’ll do it now you’re down.”