'Have you seen your other cousin yet—the young gentleman?'
'No.'
'H'm! Aren't you very lonely?' he enquired.
'We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for.'
Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.
'Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be pleasanter somewhere else—with Lady Knollys, for instance, eh?'
'Well, there certainly. But I am very well here: really the time passes very pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied: he is always impressing that on me.'
'Yes, it is not a fit place for you,' said Doctor Bryerly. 'Of course, about your uncle,' he resumed, observing my surprised look, 'it is all right: but he's quite helpless, you know. At all events, think about it. Here's my address—Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London—don't lose it, mind,' and he tore the leaf out of his note-book.
'Here's my fly at the door, and you must—you must' (he was looking at his watch)—'mind you must think of it seriously; and so, you see, don't let anyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and don't put my name—you'll remember that—only the rest of the address; and burn this. Quince is with you?'
'Yes,' I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say.