“If you had any faith in me, you would tell me if you had symptoms of illness.”
“Perhaps I should be more flattered if it were not necessary to tell them.”
“I do not profess to be a magician, like your father,” he said, ironically.
“This is a reflection upon my father,” replied Clara, indignantly. “It is not necessary for me to tell you what I think of it. I am not alone in the opinion that he is a very superior physician.”
“I did not mean it in the light of a reflection. I know he is a fine French scholar, and keeps himself au courant with the methods and discoveries of modern science; but of course he is a graduate of the old school.”
“The subject is painful to me, Albert. I am deeply mortified that you should institute any comparison between yourself and my father in this respect.”
“You seem pleased to treat me like a sophomore,” he said, angrily, assuming an air of superiority that could not deceive Clara. “You will pardon me for saying, that if this is good taste, it is at least unwise.”
“Unwise?” echoed Clara, with disgust. “I deny that I even dreamed of treating you with the slightest disrespect; but tell me, please, what result I ought to fear.”
“Oh, nothing; my respect, my admiration, amount to nothing, of course;” and Albert took out his cigar-case, and selecting a Havana, was about to strike a match.
“Put away your match!” said Clara. “You have not my permission to smoke in my room to-day.”