He spoke with so much of his father’s air and voice that Sebastian had almost recoiled from his outstretched hand, but, recollecting himself, he took it as cordially as might be.
‘This is my friend Dr. Munro,’ he said, ‘who hath come to see us through with this ticklish business.’
‘And hath Carrie come for the same end?’ asked Phil, as he turned to his wife and laughed; ‘I think ’twill be better for her to wait elsewhere till we are done with the matter.’
‘So thought I,’ said Sebastian, ‘but so did not think Carrie. Two hours of fatherly eloquence have I wasted on her this day already, and she hath turned a deaf ear to it all. Come she would, and stay she will, so there’s an end of it. But this I say, the first sound she makes, or tear she sheds, she goes from the room.’
‘Carrie, my sweet, better far go elsewhere and wait; ’twill not be long. I fear you’ll find it painful to watch this,’ said Phil, but Carrie shook her head.
‘Let me stay, Phil; ’twould be harder far not to be near you. I shall not cry nor scream, believe me; I shall be quiet all the time.’
‘Carrie is no coward in truth,’ said her father proudly. ‘Best give her her own way, Meadowes, as she seems determined in it.’
‘As you please, sir,’ he said; and there was a moment of ominous pause.
‘Come,’ said Sebastian; ‘off with your coat, Meadowes; the quicker we get to work the better.’ He turned up his own sleeves as he spoke, and Munro opened out the instruments he carried.
Philip flung off his coat.