“Same hot-headed Irishman as ever?”
“No; I have cooled considerably since the old subaltern days. India and fevers and accidents have taken the life out of me. How are you getting on? You have a number of charity patients I see.”
“Oh Lord, yes; the leeches!”
“Why don’t you shake them off?”
Camperdown grunted disapprovingly.
“You encourage them, I fancy,” said the officer in his smooth, polished tones. “They would not come if you did not do so. I hope you have others, rich ones, to counterbalance them.”
“Yes,” gruffly, “I have.”
“And you bleed them to make up for the losses you sustain through penniless patients. Ha, ha, Camperdown,” and Captain Macartney laughed the pleasant, mellifluous laugh of a man of culture and fashion.
Camperdown looked benevolently at him. “Never mind me. Talk about yourself. What are you making of your life? You’re getting older. Have you married?”
“No, but I am thinking of it,” gravely and with the faintest shade of conceit. “My stepmother urges me to it, and the advice is agreeable, for I have fallen in love.”