"Turn that d—d fellow out of the room, and bolt the door, will you?" muttered Sir Jekyl, impatiently.
"Hey? I see. How are you, Mr. Tomlinson—no return of that bronchial annoyance, eh? I'll ask you just now—we'll just make Sir Jekyl Marlowe a little more comfortable first, and I've a question or two—we'd be as well alone, you see—and do you mind? You'll be in the way, you know; we may want you, you know."
So the docile Tomlinson withdrew with a noiseless alacrity, and Doctor Pratt, in deference to his patron, bolted the mangled door.
"See, Pratt, you're tiring me to death, with your beastly questions. Wait, will you? Sit down. You'll promise me you won't tell this to anyone."
"What?"
"Do hold your tongue, like a dear fellow, and listen. Upon your honour, you don't tell, till I give you leave, what's the matter with me. Come—d—— you; yes or no?"
"Well, you know I must, if you insist; but I'd rayther not."
"You must. On your honour you won't tell, and you'll call it gout?"
"Why—why, if it is not gout, eh? don't you see? it would not do."
"Well, good morning to you, Doctor Pratt, for I'm hanged if you prescribe for me on any other terms."