“The Doctah is not in pwesently,” said Narcisse. “He ve’y hawdly comes in so soon as that. He’s living home again, once mo’, now. He’s ve’y un’estless. I tole ’im yistiddy, ‘Doctah, I know juz ’ow you feel, seh; ’tis the same way with myseff. You ought to git ma’ied!’”
“Did he say he would?” asked Richling.
“Well, you know, Mistoo Itchlin, so the povvub says, ‘Silent give consense.’ He juz look at me—nevvah said a word—ha! he couldn’! You not lookin’ ve’y well, Mistoo Itchlin. I suppose ’tis that waum weatheh.”
“I suppose it is; at least, partly,” said Richling, and added nothing more, but looked along and across the ceiling, and down at a skeleton in a corner, that was offering to shake hands with him. He was at a loss how to talk to Narcisse. Both Mary and he had grown a little ashamed of their covert sarcasms, and yet to leave them out was bread without yeast, meat without salt, as far as their own powers of speech were concerned.
“I thought, the other day,” he began again, with an effort, “when it blew up cool, that the warm weather was over.”
“It seem to be finishin’ ad the end, I think,” responded the Creole. “I think, like you, that we ’ave ’ad too waum weatheh. Me, I like that weatheh to be cole, me. I halways weigh the mose in cole weatheh. I gain flesh, in fact. But so soon ’tis summeh somethin’ become of it. I dunno if ’tis the fault of my close, but I reduct in summeh. Speakin’ of close, Mistoo Itchlin,—egscuse me if ’tis a fair question,—w’at was yo’ objec’ in buyin’ that tawpaulin hat an’ jacket lass week ad that sto’ on the levee? You din know I saw you, but I juz ’appen to see you, in fact.” (The color rose in Richling’s face, and Narcisse pressed on without allowing an answer.) “Well, thass none o’ my biziness, of co’se, but I think you lookin’ ve’y bad, Mistoo Itchlin”— He stopped very short and stepped with dignified alacrity to his desk, for Dr. Sevier’s step was on the stair.
The Doctor shook hands with Richling and sank into the chair at his desk. “Anything turned up yet, Richling?”
“Doctor,” began Richling, drawing his chair near and speaking low.
“Good-mawnin’, Doctah,” said Narcisse, showing himself with a graceful flourish.
The Doctor nodded, then turned again to Richling. “You were saying”—