“Not so very old, doctor, I’m sure,” she interrupted, looking bewitchingly into his perspiring countenance.
“Well, well,” he continued, in a gratified tone, “perhaps not exactly an old man; but I’m not a young one. Still, if it wasn’t for the confounded gout, I daresay I should be as young and skittish as the best of them.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry for that horrid gout—and I do pity you so when I see you in pain,” condoled Miss Kingscott, thinking of the doctor being “skittish,” as if she had heard of an elephant dancing a hornpipe.
“Are you really—do you really?” he asked eagerly, a flush of joy overspreading his already flushed and perspiring face. “Well, I tell you what, madam, I’m in love.”
And the doctor heaved a portentous and languishing sigh, which quivered through his colossal frame which shook like a mould of jelly.
“Are you really, doctor? I am sure I hope the young lady is nice, for your sake; and I hope she will make you a good wife,” she replied, ignoring the doctor’s nervousness until she got him to the point.
“You are very kind, madam, very kind; but you are always kind—you can’t help it, for it is in your nature. Infernally hot, is it not, madam?”
“Very warm,” said the lady, encouragingly.
“Bless my soul! madam, so it is. But, madam, Miss Kingscott that is—”
“Well?” she encouraged him, her eyes sparkling with ill-concealed fun at the doctor’s predicament.