“Done!” said Richling. They went. The rector said he would do an errand in Canal street, while Richling should go up and see the physician.
Dr. Sevier was in.
“Why, Richling!” He rose to receive him. “How are you?” He cast his eye over his visitor with professional scrutiny. “What brings you here?”
“To tell you that I’ve written for Mary,” said Richling, sinking wearily into a chair.
“Have you mailed the letter?”
“I’m taking it to the post-office now.”
The Doctor threw one leg energetically over the other, and picked up the same paper-knife that he had handled when, two years and a half before, he had sat thus, talking to Mary and John on the eve of their separation.
“Richling, I’ll tell you. I’ve been thinking about this thing for some time, and I’ve decided to make you a proposal. I look at you and at Mary and at the times—the condition of the country—the probable future—everything. I know you, physically and mentally, better than anybody else does. I can say the same of Mary. So, of course, I don’t make this proposal impulsively, and I don’t want it rejected.
“Richling, I’ll lend you two thousand to twenty-five hundred dollars, payable at your convenience, if you will just go to your room, pack up, go home, and take from six to twelve months’ holiday with your wife and child.”
The listener opened his mouth in blank astonishment.