“What!” roared Clive, leaping from his seat in Doctor Praed’s consulting-room the morning after his father’s death.
“Now, now, be calm, and listen to what I have to say.”
Clive sank back with his face flushed and hands clenched, while the Doctor continued gravely—
“She was hot-headed and angry as could be when I got her home. You see, my dear boy, women are different in their nerve forces to men. There had been a great drain upon her during the interview with your poor father, and then the sad surprise with that woman and the shock of your father’s death combined were sufficient to completely disturb the nerve centres.”
Clive Reed looked at the Doctor, as though he would have liked to shake him, but he only waited.
“I told her, as I have said, that she must not be too severe.”
Clive drew his breath hard.
“That, speaking as her father and a man of the world of a few experiences, a young lady was in error if she expected to find the man to whom she was betrothed quite perfect.”
“Doctor, you’ll drive me mad,” said Clive.
“No, I am going to teach you to be a little philosophical and to be patient, for of course she will come round. I am angry, terribly angry with you; I think it disgraceful—”