“You would be angry with me if I were to tell you,” said Naomi.
“Indeed, no. Come, I’ll help you.”
“Oh, thank you—do,” cried the girl with a sigh of relief, which seemed to mean: “You will never guess.”
“You were thinking that I admired Lady Martlett.”
“Yes! How did you know?” cried the girl, starting.
“Diagnosed it, of course!” said the doctor, laughing. “Ah, you don’t know how easily we medical men read sensitive young faces like yours, and—Oh, here they come back.”
In effect, Lady Martlett and Aunt Sophia returned to the drawing-room, the former lady entirely ignoring the presence of the doctor till she left, which she did soon afterwards, leaving the kindest of messages for Lady Scarlett, all full of condolence, and quite accepting the apologies for her non-appearance. Then there was the warmest of partings, while the doctor stood back, wondering whether he was to be noticed or passed over, the latter seeming to be likely; when, just as she reached the door, Lady Martlett turned and bowed in the most distant way.
Then John Scales, M.D., stood alone in the drawing-room, listening to the voices in the hall as the door swung to.
“Humph!” he said to himself. “What a woman! She’s glorious! I like her pride and that cool haughty way of hers! And what a voice!
“No; it won’t do,” he muttered, after a short pause. “I’m not a marrying man—not likely to be a marrying man; and if I were, her Ladyship would say, with all reason upon her side: ‘The fellow must be mad! His insolence and assumption are not to be borne.’