The woman went upstairs, and the Bishop, waiting in the hall, overheard the conversation which ensued.
“Bishop says, sir, as he must come upstairs if you can’t come down.”
“Tell his lordship, Mary, that I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but it’s something infectious—scarlet fever, I reckon—and maybe he’ll catch it if he comes up here.”
However, Henry Phillpotts was not to be dissuaded, and he mounted the stairs and seated himself by the bed.
“What will your lordship take?” asked Froude, showing his head only above the clothes. “It’s cruel cold; a drop of brandy hot will help to keep off the infection.”
“Nothing, thank you, Mr. Froude. I take this opportunity to tell you that strange stories concerning you meet my ears.”
“Perhaps your lordship prefers whisky,” said Froude, “with a slice of lemon in your grog.”
“Mr. Froude, I beg you to desist. I am here to inquire into the truth of the stories repeated concerning you.”
“My lord, I’ve also heard strange tales about your lordship. But among gentlemen, us don’t give heed to all thickey tittle-tattle. Perhaps you’d prefer gin—London or Plymouth, my lord? You’ll excuse me, my lord; I be terrible bad, and I be afraid you’ll catch the infection—pleased to have seen you—good-bye”; and he ducked his head under the bedclothes.
“I knawed he’d come,” said Froude to Russell after the visit; “but I reckon he’ll never come again: the air of Knowstone be too keen for he.”