“With great pleasure, madam,” said the young doctor, frankly; “it will save me a five miles’ walk, for I must go across the common this afternoon to Lindham.”
“To see poor old Mrs Wattley?” cried Lucy eagerly, as Mrs Alleyne tried to hide by a smile, her annoyance at her invitation being accepted.
“Yes; to see poor old Mrs Wattley,” said Oldroyd, nodding.
“Is she very ill?” said Lucy sympathetically.
“Stricken with a fatal disease, my dear young lady,” he replied.
“Oh!” ejaculated Lucy.
“One, however, that gives neither pain nor trouble. She will not suffer in the least.”
“I’m glad of that,” cried Lucy, “for I like the poor old lady. What is her complaint?”
“Senility,” said Oldroyd, smiling. “Why, my dear Miss Alleyne, she is ninety-five.”
“Will you come with me, Lucy,” said Mrs Alleyne, who had been vainly trying to catch her daughter’s eye, and then—“perhaps Mr Oldroyd will excuse us.”