“Most grand men—if they are truly great—are that. Your upstarts assume no end of airs.”
“I know who will never assume airs, Johnny. He has none in him.”
“Who’s that?”
“Yourself.”
It made me laugh. I had nothing to assume them for.
It was either that afternoon or the following one that Dr. Lewis came up to the Squire and old Coney as they were talking together in the road. He told them that he could not possibly stay in the house; he should be laid up if he did; he must go away until the smell of the paint was gone. That he was looking ill, both saw; and they believed he did not complain without cause.
The question was, where could he go? Mr. Coney hospitably offered him house-room; but the doctor, while thanking him, said the smell might last a long time, and he should prefer to be independent. He had been thinking of going with Anne to Worcester for a time. Did they know of lodgings there?
“Better go to an hotel,” said the Squire. “No trouble at an hotel.”
“But hotels are not always comfortable. I cannot feel at home in them,” argued the poor doctor. “And they cost too much besides.”