“Ha, Moggridge!” he cried. “Good day.”
“Time you was goin’ in, sir,” said Moggridge, stolidly; and to himself he muttered, “He’s crackeder than I thought, a-shoutin’ and a-ravin’ to hisself. Just as well I kept a heye on ’im.”
Like most clever people, Mr Beveridge generally followed the line of least resistance. He slipped his arm through his attendant’s, shouted a farewell apparently to some imaginary divinity overhead, and turned towards the house.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Moggridge.
“Funny thing your turning up. Out for a walk, I suppose?”
“For a stroll, sir—that’s to say——” he stopped.
“That on these chilly afternoons the dear good doctor is afraid of my health?”
“That’s kind o’ it, sir.”
“But of course I’m not supposed to notice anything, eh?”