'How long ago, Sir?'
'About ten—no, hardly so much—eight minutes ago,' answered Toole, as he followed that swift phantom up the stairs.
'Your most obedient, Ma'am,' said the slim and lofty doctor, parenthetically saluting the good lady; and he stood by the bedside, having laid his muff on the chair.
'Well, Sir, and how do you feel? There now, that will do, Sir; don't mind speaking; I see. And he put his hand under the clothes, and laid it on Sturk's arm, and slid it down to his hand, and felt his pulse.
'And he's been near ten minutes this way?' said the doctor.
'Oh, he was a great deal worse; 'tis a vast deal better now; isn't it, Doctor Toole?'
'The rigor is subsiding, then. Has he had a sweat, Ma'am?' said Pell.
'Oh, no—nothing like—quite nice and cool, doctor—and no fever; nice quiet sleep; and his appetite wonderful; tell him, Doctor Toole.'
'Oh, yes, Ma'am—Doctor Pell knows; I told him all, Ma'am,' said Toole, who was looking with a blank and dismal sort of contemplation upon Sturk's fallen countenance.
'Well, Ma'am,' said Pell, as he looked on his watch, 'this rigor, you see, will soon pass away, and you're doing everything we could wish, and (for he found he had time to scribble a prescription), we'll just order him a trifle. Good-day, Sir. Your most obedient, Ma'am.'