“'At ish my deshire,” said Mr. Lavender, keeping his finger on his tooth, and his eyes closed. “'At one.”
“I cannot give you gas without my anaesthedist.”
“I dow,” said Mr. Lavender; “be wick.”
And, feeling the little cold spy-glass begin to touch his gums, he clenched his hands and thought: “This is the moment to prove that I, too, can die for a good cause. If I am not man enough to bear for my country so small a woe I can never again look Aurora in the face.”
The voice of the young dentist dragged him rudely from the depth of his resignation.
“Excuse me, but which dooth did you say?”
Mr. Lavender again inserted his finger, and opened his eyes.
The dentist shook his head. “Imbossible,” he said; “that dooth is perfectly sound. The other two are rotten. But they do not ache?”
Mr. Lavender shook his head and repeated:
“At one.”