“I forgot it, then; I meant to do so. What is the time?” He looked at his watch: ten minutes to four. “Did the doctor say at what hour he should call?” Mr. Carlyle added to Madame Vine.
“Not precisely. I gathered that it would be very early in the afternoon.”
“Here he is!” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle with alacrity, as he went into the hall. She supposed he alluded to the physician—supposed he had seen him pass the window. Their entrance together woke up William.
“Well,” said the doctor, who was a little man with a bald head, “and how fares it with my young patient? Bon jour madame.”
“Bon jour, monsieur,” responded she. She wished everybody would address her in French, and take her for French; there seemed less chance of recognition. She would have to speak in good plain English, however, if she must carry on conversation with the doctor. Beyond a familiar phrase or two, he was something like Justice Hare—Nong parley Fronsay me!
“And how does the cod-liver oil get on?” asked the doctor of William, as he drew him to the light. “It is nicer now than it used to be, eh?”
“No,” said William; “it is nastier than ever.”
Dr. Martin looked at the boy; felt his pulse, his skin, listened to his breathing. “There,” said he, presently, “you may sit down and have your nap out.”
“I wish I might have something to drink; I am very thirsty. May I ring for some water, papa?”
“Go and find your aunt’s maid, and ask her for some,” said Mr. Carlyle.