"To see me?"
"What else should I come for? Do you suppose that I called to consult the bottle-boy?"
"Certainly not, Miss Oman. So you find the lady doctor no use, after all?"
Miss Oman gnashed her teeth at me (and very fine teeth they were too).
"I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham."
My facetiousness evaporated instantly. "I hope Miss Bellingham is not ill," I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile from Miss Oman.
"No," was the reply, "she is not ill, but she has cut her hand rather badly. It's her right hand too, and she can't afford to lose the use of it, not being a great, bulky, lazy, lolloping man. So you had better go and put some stuff on it."
With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanished into the depths of the cavern like the witch of Wokey, while I hurried on to the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments and materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.
Miss Oman's juvenile maidservant, who opened the door to me, stated the existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness.
"Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin."