Ejaculations of sympathy and horror made themselves heard.
“Drums! How shocking!” cried Mrs. Bridgeman. “Can you cure even drums, Harriet, my own?”
“Give me ten minutes, Catherine! I ask but that!”
And, so saying, Mrs. Harriet planted her fat hands upon the head of the young patient, closed her eyes and began to breathe very hard.
Silence now fell upon the people, who said not a word, but who could not prevent themselves from rustling as they pressed about this exhibition of a latter-day apostle. The Prophet and Lady Enid were close to the armchair, and the Prophet, who had never before been present at any such ceremony—it was accompanied by the twenty guitars, now tearing out the serenade, “From the bull-ring I come to thee!”—was so interested that he completely forgot Mr. and Madame Sagittarius, and lost for the moment all memory of Sir Tiglath. The silly life engrossed him. He had no eyes for anyone but Mrs. Harriet, who, as she leaned forward in the chair with closed eyes, looked like a determined middle-aged man about to offer up the thin girl on the footstool as a burnt sacrifice.
“You’re better now, poor thing,” said Mrs. Harriet, after five minutes has elapsed. “You’re feeling much better?”
“Oh, no, I’m not!” said the girl, shaking her head under the hands of the demonstrator. “The fire’s blazing and the drums are beating like anything.”
Mrs. Harriet’s hue deepened, and there was a faint murmur of vague reproof from the company.
“H’sh!” said the demonstrator, closing her hands upon the patient’s head with some acrimony. “H’sh!”
And she began to breathe hard once more. Another five minutes elapsed, and then Mrs. Harriet exclaimed with decision,—