“Hah! that is singular,” said Prayle thoughtfully. “Would the failure be from want of perseverance, do you think?”
“Perhaps so. One doesn’t know how much to persevere, you see.”
“These matters are very strange—very well worthy of consideration and study, Doctor Scales.”
“Very well worthy of consideration indeed, Mr Prayle,” said the doctor; and then to himself: “This fellow gives me a nervous affection in the toes.”
“I trust my remarks do not worry you, Lady Scarlett?” said Prayle, in his bland way.
“O no, not at all,” replied that lady. “Pray do not think we cannot appreciate a little serious talk.”
Prayle smiled as he looked at the speaker—a quiet sad smile, full of thankfulness; but it seemed to trouble Lady Scarlett, who hastened to join the conversation on the other side, replying only in monosyllables afterwards to Prayle’s remarks.
The dinner passed off very pleasantly, and at last the ladies rose and left the table, leaving the gentlemen to their wine, or rather to the modern substitute for the old custom—their coffee, after which they smoked their cigarettes in the veranda, and the conversation once more took a medical turn.
“I can’t help thinking about that patient of yours, Jack,” said Sir James. “Poor fellow! What a shocking affair!”
“Yes, it must be a terrible life,” said Prayle. “Life, Arthur! it must be a sort of death,” exclaimed Scarlett excitedly. “Poor fellow! What a state!”