“Oh, yes; the climate is glorious, my lad.”
“And here, before long, the leaves will fall from that plane-tree in the corner of the square, that one whose top you can just see; and it will get colder, and the nights long, and the gas always burning in the lamps, and shining dimly through the blinds; and then the fog will fill the streets, and creep in through the cracks of the window; and the blacks will fall and come in upon my book, and it will be so bitterly cold, and that dreadful cough will begin again. Oh, dear!”
There was silence in the room as the lad finished with a weary sigh; and though it was a bright morning in September, each of the elder personages seemed to conjure up the scenes the invalid portrayed, and thought of him lying back there in the desolate London winter, miserable in spirit, and ill at ease from his complaint.
Then three of the four present started, for the lawyer blew a challenge on his trumpet.
“There is no better climate anywhere, sir,” he said, addressing the professor, “and no more healthy spot than London.”
“Bless the man!” ejaculated Mrs Dunn.
“I beg to differ from you, sir,” said the professor in a loud voice, as if he were addressing a class. “By the reports of the meteorological society—”
“Hang the meteorological society, sir!” cried the lawyer, “I go by my own knowledge.”
“Pray, gentlemen!” cried Mrs Dunn, “you forget how weak the patient is.”
“Hush, Mrs Dunn,” said the lad eagerly; “let them talk. I like to hear.”