“I say—you know—his sweet sister. Is that the immortal she?”
“What? My choice? Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha?” laughed the doctor, with enjoyable mirth. “No, no; I’m cut out for a bachelor. No wedding for me. Bah! what’s a poor doctor to do with a wife! No, sir; no, sir. I’m going to preserve myself free of domestic cares for the benefit of all who may seek my aid.”
“Well, for my part,” said Aunt Sophia, “I think it must be a very terrible case.”
“Terrible, my dear madam.”
“But you will be able to cure him?”
“I hope so; but indeed that is all I can say. Such cases as this puzzle the greatest men.”
“I suppose,” said Arthur Prayle, in a smooth bland voice, “that you administer tonic medicines—quinine and iron and the like?”
“O yes,” said the doctor grimly. “That’s exactly what we do, and it doesn’t cure the patient in the least.”
“But you give him cold bathing and exercise, doctor?”
“O yes, Mr Prayle; cold bathing and exercise, plenty of them; but they don’t do any good.”