“Which I didn’t mean any harm, sir; but wouldn’t it be better to let the poor boy die in peace, instead of worrying him to keep on taking physic?”
“And what would you and his friends say if I did not prescribe for him?”
“I should say it was the best thing, sir; and as to his friends, why, he hasn’t got any.”
“Mr Burne?”
“What! the lawyer, sir? I don’t call him a friend. Looks after the money his poor pa left, and doles it out once a month, and comes and takes snuff and blows his nose all over the room, as if he was a human trombone, and then says, ‘hum!’ and ‘ha!’ and ‘send me word how he is now and then,’ and goes away.”
“But his father’s executor, Professor Preston?”
“Lor’ bless the man! don’t talk about him. I wrote to him last week about how bad the poor boy was; and he came up from Oxford to see him, and sat down and read something out of a roll of paper to him about his dog.”
“About his dog, Mrs Dunn?”
“Yes, sir, about his dog Pompey, and then about tombs—nice subject to bring up to a poor boy half-dead with consumption! And as soon as he had done reading he begins talking to him. You said Master Lawrence was to be kept quiet, sir?”
“Certainly, Mrs Dunn.”