“Yes, yes,” replied Lady Scarlett sadly; “deference and respect;” and as she gazed at him, there was a pained and wistful look in her suffused eyes that seemed to make him hesitate for the moment; but as she added, rather bitterly—“that is all,” the way to his heart, that was beginning to open a little, reclosed, and he said sternly:
“No; I feel certain that it would be far better that I should not monopolise the treatment of my friend’s case, and that—”
“Hush!” exclaimed Lady Scarlett quickly, for the door opened, and the object of their conversation, looking thin, pale, and with a scared and anxious expression on his countenance, came quickly into the room.
“Ah, Jack, here you are, then!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Here, come and sit and talk to me.”
“All right,” said the doctor, in his blunt way. “What do you say to having out the ponies and giving me a drive?”
“Drive?—a drive?” repeated Scarlett uneasily. “No, no. It is not fine enough.”
“Lovely, my dear fellow, as soon as you get outside.”
“No; not to-day, Jack. Don’t ask me,” said Scarlett excitedly, as his wife sat down and took up a piece of work. “The ponies are too fresh. They’ve done nothing lately, and one of them has developed a frightfully vicious temper. I shall have to sell them.”
“Let’s go on the water, then; a row would do you good.”
Lady Scarlett darted an imploring look at the doctor; but if intended to stay his speech it came too late.