Dr. Camperdown’s gaze softened. Springing from his sleigh, he anchored Polypharmacy to a snowdrift, and casting off his huge raccoon coat, like an animal shedding its skin, he took a book from a pocket in it, and made his way to the drawing room.
Divans, ottomans, and arm-chairs were full of young people, chatting, laughing, and telling jokes over their tea and coffee, sandwiches and cake.
“I believe you young people laugh all the time,” he grumbled good-naturedly, coming to a halt in the middle of the room, and surveying them from under his eyebrows. “Girls especially—always giggling.”
“How old are you, dear doctor?” exclaimed a pretty girl of seventeen, looking saucily up into his face. “Is it a thousand or two thousand? I’m only twenty,” and she made an audacious face at her teacup.
“Silly girl,” and the man looked down kindly at her; “silly girl. Where is Judy Colonibel? She is the only sensible one in this party. Judy, Judy; where are you?”
“I don’t know where she has bestowed herself,” said Mrs. Colonibel complainingly. “She could be of assistance to me if she were here. Won’t you find her, Brian?”
Camperdown went out into the hall, and lifted up his voice. “Judy, I have a present for you.”
She appeared then—hobbling along over the carpet with childish eagerness.
"It is that rara avis, a Canadian novel," said Camperdown. “The glittering romance of the ‘Golden Dog.’ See the picture of him. Gnawing a man’s thigh bone. Looks as if he enjoyed it. Read the French, Judy.”
The girl bent her head over the book and read slowly: