"He's a cliver young man," said Mrs. Thomson. "It's wonderful how he's got on."
"Mrs. Thomson, his father just said to me this morning, 'Whit a career the boy's had!' At school he got every prize he could have got, and at college he lifted the Buchanan Prize and the Bailie Medal; then he got the Dixon Scholarship, and—it sounds like boasting, but ye know what I mean—the Professors fair fought to have him for an assistant, and now at his age—at his age, mind you—he's a specialist on—excuse me mentioning it—the stomach and bowels."
Everyone in the room murmured their wonder at Dr. Hugh's meteoric career, and Mrs. Macbean said generously, "You should be a proud woman, Mrs. Forsyth."
"Oh! I don't know about that. How are your girls? Is Phemie better?"
"I didn't know she was ill," said Mrs. Thomson.
Mrs. Macbean's face wore an important look, as she said with a sort of melancholy satisfaction, "Yes, she's ill, Mrs. Thomson, and likely to be ill for a long time. And you wouldn't believe how simply it began. She was in at Pettigrew & Stephens', or it might have been Copland & Lye's; anyway, it was one of the Sauchiehall Street shops, and she was coming down the stairs quite quietly—Maggie was with her—when one of the young gentlemen shop-walkers came up the stairs in a kinda hurry, and whether he pushed against Phemie, I don't know, and Maggie can't be sure; anyway, she slipped. She didn't fall, you know, or anything like that, but in saving herself she must have given herself a twist—for I'll tell you what happened."
There was something strangely appetising in Mrs. Macbean as a talker: she somehow managed to make her listeners hungry for more.
"Well, she didn't say much about it at the time. Just when she came in she said, joky-like, 'I nearly fell down the stairs in a shop to-day, Mother, and I gave myself quite a twist.' That was all she said, and Maggie passed some remark about the gentleman in the shop being in a hurry, and I thought no more about it. But about a week later Phemie says to me, 'D'ye know,' she says, 'I've got a sort of pain, nothing much, but it keeps there.' You may be sure I got the doctor quick, for I'm niver one that would lichtly a pain, as ye might say, but he couldn't find anything wrong. But the girl was niver well, and he said perhaps it would be as well to see a specialist. And I said, 'Certainly, doctor, you find out the best man and Mr. Macbean won't grudge the money, for he thinks the world of his girls.' So Dr. Rankine made arrangements, and we went to see Sir Angus Johnston, a real swell, but such a nice homely man. I could have said anything to him—ye know what I mean. And he said to me undoubtedly the trouble arose from the twist she had given herself that day."
"And whit was like the matter?" asked Miss Hendry, who had listened breathless to the recital.
"Well," said Mrs. Macbean, "it was like this. When she slipped she had put something out of its place and it had put something else out of its place. I really can't tell you right what, but anyway Sir Angus Johnston said to me, 'Mrs. Macbean,' he said, 'your daughter's liver'—well, I wouldn't just be sure that it was her liver—but anyway he said it was as big as a tea-kettle."