"It's the gossip, Tom. But maybe it isn't the case. I'll call to see Mrs. Meadowsweet this morning, and find out."
"I would if I were you. Beatrice is a fine girl, and mustn't throw herself away."
"Throw herself away! Why, it's a splendid match for her. A most aristocratic young man! One of the upper ten, and no mistake."
"That's all you women think about. Well, I'm off to the Bells now."
The doctor presently reached that rather humble little dwelling where the Bell family enjoyed domestic felicity.
He was ushered in by the maid, who wore an important and mysterious face. Mrs. Bell quickly joined him, and she looked more important and mysterious still.
"Matty isn't well," she said, sinking her voice to a stage whisper. "Matty has been badly treated; she has had a blight."
"Dear, dear!" said Doctor Morris.
He was a fat, comfortable-looking man, his hands in particular were very fat, and when he warred to show special sympathy he was fond of rubbing them.
"Dear, dear!" he repeated. "A blight! That's more a phrase to apply to the potato than to a blooming young girl."