As the great London physician was leaving later, he said to the country doctor: "When shall I see you again, Rowland? We ought to meet now and then."
"Ay, we ought," said Rowland, with the shadow of sadness on his inexpressive face. This was followed by a gleam of pleasure. "Granby, come down here for a week's fishing. I mean come to my place at Barnardstown. There is capital fishing there. I'll give you new-laid eggs and porridge for your breakfast; beef or fowl and ham, with sound claret for your dinner; and a good supper, with excellent beer, and afterwards a rare good glass of Scotch whisky and a cigar."
The great man shook his head ruefully. "I wish I could, Rowland, my friend. It would remind me of younger and more light-hearted days. But it can't be done now. Is there any chance of inducing you to come up to London to stay with us awhile? Do, Rowland!"
"Pooh, pooh, man."
"And when shall we meet again?"
"When some accident befalls the next duke."
"But," said the London baronet, pausing, as he was about to step into the carriage, "I understood that there was no heir to the title?"
"True, true. I forgot that, Granby. Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye, Rowland."
And the two shook hands.