“Depend upon it,” said Miss Walsingham, “nothing but business can keep him away from us; his pleasure is always at home.”
“I am thinking,” said Mr. Palmer, drawing Mr. Walsingham aside, “I am thinking whether he has really brought this Spanish lady home with him, and what will become of her—of—him, I mean. I wish I was not going to Jamaica!”
“Then, my dear sir, where is the necessity of your going?”
“My health—my health—the physicians say I cannot live in England.”
Mr. Walsingham, who had but little faith in physicians, laughed, and exclaimed, “But, my dear sir, when you see so many men alive in England at this instant, why should you believe in the impossibility of your living even in this pestiferous country?”
Mr. Palmer half smiled, felt for his snuff-box, and then replied, “I am sure I should like to live in England, if my health would let me; but,” continued he, his face growing longer, and taking the hypochondriac cast as he pronounced the word, “but, Mr. Walsingham, you don’t consider that my health is really—really—”
“Really very good, I see,” interrupted Mr. Walsingham, “and I am heartily glad to see it.”
“Sir! sir! you do not see it, I assure you. I have a great opinion of your judgment, but as you are not a physician—”
“And because I have not taken out my diploma, you think I can neither see nor understand,” interrupted Mr. Walsingham. “But, nevertheless, give me leave to feel your pulse.”
“Do you really understand a pulse?” said Mr. Palmer, baring his wrist, and sighing.