Prayle looked up quickly.
“Ah, it does seem curious,” said the doctor with a dry look of amusement on his countenance. “Would it not be more correct to say, one wonders that the young lady could ever have had such an aunt?”
“Eh? Yes! Of course you are right,” said Mr Saxby, nodding. “Or, no! Oh, no! That won’t do, you know. Impossible. I was right. Eh? No; I was not. Tut—tut! how confusing these relationships are.”
Mr Saxby discoursed upon stocks right through the journey up; and Mr Prayle either assumed to, or really did go to sleep, only awakening to take an effusive farewell of his companions at the terminus; while Saxby, to the doctor’s discomposure, took his arm, saying, “I’m going your way,” and walked by his side, talking of the weather, till, turning suddenly, he said: “I say: fair play’s a jewel, doctor. Are we both—eh?—Miss Naomi?”
“What, I?—thinking of her? My dear sir, no!”
“Thank you, doctor. First time I’m ill, I’ll come to you. That’s a load off my mind!”
“But really, Mr Saxby, you should have asked Mr Prayle that question.”
“Eh? What? You don’t think so, do you?”
“I should be sorry to pass any judgment upon the matter, Mr Saxby,” said the doctor quietly; “and now we part. Good-day.”
“Prayle, eh?” said Saxby. “Well, I never thought of him, and—Ah, she’s about the nicest, simplest, and sweetest girl I ever saw! But, Prayle!”