“It’s his beastly Yankee accent, if it isn’t that beastlier thing, the Australian,” the great Imperialist was in the act of saying when the lancet struck suddenly and was as suddenly withdrawn.
“You’re quite right, monkey,” said Sir Charles in a weaker voice, “it’s only a prick, and I think”—his voice still sinking,—“that it’s only due to your great position in the medical world that I should express my heartfelt thanks for your courteous services. It is men like you, sir, who mean to suffering humanity....” Sir Charles suddenly stopped. His voice grew a little louder. “Did you say he was a Yankee or an Australian, Maria? Australians have the Cockney ‘a’; a filthy thing it is, too!”
The skeleton hand was poised again upon Sir Charles’ head; he felt his chin pressed down upon his chest; there was another sharp little stroke, this time behind his left ear, and with a deep sigh he seemed to sink into himself.
Scipio quietly touched the delicate point of his instrument with antiseptic wool, put it back into its case and watched his patient with a professional eye.
The man was dazed. He gripped his wife’s hand until he almost caused her pain, and they could hear him mutter disconnected words:
“The highest possible appreciation.... My public position alone ... sufficient reward ... in its way a link between ... provinces ... our great Empire ... daughter ... daughter ... daughter....” Then almost inaudibly “... nations.”
For perhaps five minutes the Great Statesman was silent, and his breathing was so regular that he might have been asleep.
“Will he go to sleep, doctor?” whispered Lady Repton.
Scipio Knickerbocker shook his head. “He’ll be less rattled every minute, Ma’am,” was his pronouncement, and once again he proved his science by the justice of his prognostication.
Sir Charles stood up, a little groggy, leant one hand on the back of a chair, took a deep breath, stood up more strongly, and said at last in a voice still weak but quite clear:—