“Remove the patients—Good gracious!” ejaculated the doctor. “Why they’ve only just been removed once! Can’t you let them settle down a little?”
“We want to take them to Ireland,” said Norah, eagerly. “Can we, doctor?”
“H’m,” said the doctor, reflectively. “There might be worse plans. We’ll see. Ireland: that’s the place where the motto is, ‘When you see a head, hit it!’ isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s universal,” said Mr. Linton mildly. “It’s really much more peaceful than English legends would lead you to believe.”
“Between you and me, what the average Englishmen knows of Ireland might, I believe, he put into one’s eye without inconvenience,” affirmed the doctor. “I’m a Scot, and I don’t mind admitting I don’t know anything. But no Englishman tells an Irish story without making his speakers say ‘Bedad!’ and ‘Begorra!’ in turn: and I’ve known a heap of Irishmen, and their conversation was singularly free from those remarks. I have an inward conviction that the English-made Irishman doesn’t exist; only I never have time to verify any of my inward convictions. And perhaps that’s as well, because then they never lose weight! Have I drunk all the tea, Miss Norah?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Norah, tilting the teapot regretfully and without success. “Do let me get you some more. I know quite well where they make it.”
“Go to!” said the doctor, rising. “Don’t tempt an honest man from the path of duty. I’m off—and I give you three minutes. Then the patients are to compose themselves to slumber.”
“And Ireland, doctor?”
“Ireland?” said the doctor, pausing in the doorway. “Oh, there’s lots of time to think about that distressful country.” He relented a little, looking at the eager faces. “Very possibly. We’ll re-open the discussion this day week. Three minutes, mind. Good-bye.” His quick steps died away along the corridor.
Half an hour later Wally wriggled on his pillow.