"Yes, everything is wrong,—nothing is right,—all things are out of order,—and everything wants a change."
"Well, my dear, I think, if we took a house for three months at Brighton, it would do us all good."
"What good, madam? And who is to pay for it? What will become of my patients? and how am I to support my family? Brighton indeed! No, no! If I cannot be better without going to Brighton, I had better decline at home! Who is to look after my patients?"
"Why, there is Doctor Goodfellow, who I am sure you admire. He will attend any of your patients for you. Do, my dear, have a little compassion upon yourself."
"And, I suppose, upon you too; upon Kitty as well; upon Mary, Patty, and little Johnny; servants and all,—Heigh!"
"If you please, my dear, even so, for you have not had much compassion upon any of us lately; and a change towards us all would be very agreeable."
A good wife has nothing to fear, and especially when she knows that she so loves her husband as to desire his health above all things else, whether of body, mind, or spirit. If a wife may not expostulate with her husband, who may? And notwithstanding all his perverseness, she had her own way with him, because she felt it was right.
To Brighton they all went; but the fancy had taken too strong hold upon Doctor Bull, to let him rest. He worried himself because he was away from London,—he worried himself about the state of his patients,—the price of stocks,—the state of his own pulse, tongue, eyes, and lungs,—till he could endure himself no longer.
"I must go and see my old friend Gambado; I know he is a clever man, and has paid great attention to the nervous system, I must go and see him. He ordered his chariot, and drove to Bread-street; sent in his card, and was very soon shaking hands with his quondam friend Doctor Gambado.
"Bull, I am glad to see you! You are not come to consult me professionally about yourself, I hope?"