“P.S.—Man, and All About Him, is rebinding. Ready I expect soon.”
“Ah! Cunnie, Cunnie ...?” Mrs Montgomery murmured, laying the card down near a photograph of the Court-physician with a sigh: “Ah! Arthur Amos Cuncliffe Babcock ...?” she invoked his name dulcetly in full: and as though in telepathic response, there came a tap at the door, and the doctor himself looked in.
He had been attending, it seemed, the young wife of the Comptroller of the Household at the extremity of the corridor; a creature, who, after two brief weeks of marriage, imagined herself to be in an interesting state: “I believe baby’s coming!” she would cry out every few hours.
“Do I intrude?” he demanded, in his forceful, virile voice, that ladies knew and liked: “pray say so if I do.”
“Does he intrude!” Mrs Montgomery flashed an arch glance towards the cornice.
“Well, and how are you keeping?” the doctor asked, dropping on to a rep causeuse that stood before the fire.
“I’m only semi-well, doctor, thanks!”
“Why, what’s the trouble?”
“You know my organism is not a very strong one, Dr Cuncliffe ...” Mrs Montgomery replied, drawing up a chair, and settling a cushion with a sigh of resignation at her back.