“Who said I was in pain?” retorted Bertie, ungraciously, his voice as squeaky as a penny trumpet.
“Why, Bertie, you know you are in great pain: it was I who told Dr. Knox so,” interposed the father.
“Then you had no business to tell him so,” shrieked Bertie, with a hideous grin of resentment. “What is it to him?—or to you?—or to anybody?”
“Oh, Bertie, Bertie!” whispered Miss Tamlyn. “Oh, my boy, you should not give way like this.”
“You just give your tongue a holiday, Aunt Bessy,” fired Bertie. “I can’t be bothered by you all in this way.”
Dr. Knox, looking down at him, saw something wrong in the position he was lying in. He stooped, lifted him quietly in his strong arms, and altered it.
“There, Bertie, you will be better now.”
“No, I’m not better, and why d’you interfere?” retorted Bertie in his temper, and burst out crying. It was weary work, waiting on that lad; the house had a daily benefit of it. He had always been given way to: his whims were studied, his tempers went unreproved, and no patience was taught him.
Dr. Knox drove to Mrs. Stephenson’s. He dismissed the carriage when he came out; for he had some patients to see on his own score amongst the poor, and went on to them. They were at tea at Mr. Tamlyn’s when he got back. He looked very ill, and sat down at once.
“Are you tired, Arnold?” asked the surgeon.