“I should like to see her.”
Mrs. Riley hoisted her chin. “I dunno if she’s a-seein’ comp’ny to-day.” The voice was amiably important. “Wont ye walk in? Take a seat and sit down, sur, and I’ll go and infarm the laydie.”
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, but continued to stand.
Mrs. Riley started and stopped again.
“Ye forgot to give me yer kyaird, sur.” She drew her chin in again austerely.
“Just say Dr. Sevier.”
“Certainly, sur; yes, that’ll be sufficiend. And dispinse with the kyaird.” She went majestically.
The Doctor, left alone, cast his uninterested glance around the smart little bare-floored parlor, upon its new, jig-sawed, gray hair-cloth furniture, and up upon a picture of the Pope. When Mrs. Riley, in a moment, returned he stood looking out the door.
“Mrs. Richling consints to see ye, sur. She’ll be in turreckly. Take a seat and sit down.” She readjusted the infant on her arm and lifted and swung a hair-cloth arm-chair toward him without visible exertion. “There’s no use o’ having chayers if ye don’t sit on um,” she added affably.
The Doctor sat down, and Mrs. Riley occupied the exact centre of the small, wide-eared, brittle-looking sofa, where she filled in the silent moments that followed by pulling down the skirts of the infant’s apparel, oppressed with the necessity of keeping up a conversation and with the want of subject-matter. The child stared at the Doctor, and suddenly plunged toward him with a loud and very watery coo.