‘Nonsense! Pooh! Rubbish!’ Each word shot out of his lordship’s mouth like a bullet, ‘I never felt better.’
‘Ye never looked worse,’ said Peebles.
‘God bless my soul!’ said his lordship. ‘It must be those damn’d globules that Clarke is giving me. They’re ruining my liver—actually ruining it. Infernal idiots of doctors!’ His fingers moved faster. ‘Go away, Peebles, go away!’
Peebles retired into the background, and stood scraping his lantern jaws with his right hand.
‘Peebles!’ said the old gentleman presently.
‘My lord?’
‘You don’t think——’ Lord Kilpatrick paused, hem’d, and finally shot the question out of himself with a suddenness which showed how strong a repugnance he had to conquer before he could ask it—‘you don’t think I’m going to die?’
‘Ye don’t suppose ye’re immortal, do ye?’ asked the unbending servitor.
‘Of course not! Confound you for an unfeeling blockhead!’ cried his master. ‘Give me your advice—tell me what to do.’
‘I’m to prescribe for ye?’ asked Peebles, looking, as he stood outlined against the oblong of white sky seen through the window, like the silhouette of some curious species of parrot.