“I should deserve none,” said Clarence Hervey; “you have made me the happiest of men.”
“The happiest of men!—No, no; keep that superlative exclamation for a future occasion. But now you behave like a reasonable creature, you deserve to hear the praises of your Belinda—I am so much charmed with her, that I wish—”
“When can I see her?” interrupted Hervey; “I’ll go to her this instant.”
“Gently,” said Dr. X——, “you forget what time of the day it is—you forget that Miss Portman has been up all night—that Lady Delacour is extremely ill—and that this would be the most unseasonable opportunity you could possibly choose for your visit.”
To this observation Clarence Hervey assented; but he immediately seized a pen from the doctor’s writing table, and began a letter to Belinda. The doctor threw himself upon the sofa, saying, “Waken me when you want me,” and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.
“Doctor, upon second thoughts,” said Clarence, rising suddenly, and tearing his letter down the middle, “I cannot write to her yet—I forgot the reformation of Lady Delacour: how soon do you think she will be well? Besides, I have another reason for not writing to Belinda at present—you must know, my dear doctor, that I have, or had, another mistress.”
“Another mistress, indeed!” cried Dr. X——, trying to waken himself.
“Good Heavens! I do believe you’ve been asleep.”
“I do believe I have.”
“But is it possible that you could fall sound asleep in that time?”