“Oh, just like other folk,” said Mr. Dyce, and passed on chuckling, to run almost into the arms of Captain Consequence.
“Have you heard the latest?” said Captain Consequence, putting his kid-gloved hand on the shoulder of the lawyer, who felt it like a lump of ice, for he did not greatly like the man, the smell of whose cigars, he said, before he knew they came from the Pilgrim widows, proved that he rose from the ranks.
“No, Captain Brodie,” he said, coldly. “Who's the rogue or the fool this time?” but the captain was too stupid to perceive it. He stared perplexedly.
“I hear,” said he, “the doctor's in a difficulty.”
“Is he—is he?” said Mr. Dyce. “That's a chance for his friends to stand by him.”
“Let him take it!” said Captain Consequence, puffing. “Did he not say to me once yonder, 'God knows how you're living.'”
“It must be God alone, for all the rest of us are wondering,” said Mr. Dyce, and left the man to put it in his pipe and smoke it.
Along the street came the two Miss Duffs, who kept the dame school, and he saw a hesitation in their manner when they realized a meeting was inevitable. If they had been folk that owed him anything he would not have wondered, from their manner, to see them tuck up their skirts and scurry down the lane. Twins they were—a tiny couple, scarcely young, dressed always in a douce long-lasting brown, something in their walk and color that made them look like pigeon hens, and long ago conferred on them that name in Daniel Dyce's dwelling. They met him in front of his own door, and seemed inclined to pass in a trepidation.
He took off his hat to them and stood, full of curiosity about Lennox.
“What a lovely winter day!” said Miss Jean, with an air of supplication, as if her very life depended on his agreement.