CHAPTER XIV.
My leg, "my best leg," as poor Beau Brummell used to say, has been hurting rather, for the last week or two. I do not know how Palestrina has discovered this, but the dear little woman is looking harassed and anxious, and she is trying to inveigle me into going up to London again, to get further advice from my doctor. She has broached the subject in several ways. There is a play going on at present which she would much like to see, if I will be kind enough to take her to London for a couple of days. Or there is some shopping which she wants to do, and she must have my advice on the subject. I believe that she does not like to allow, even to herself, that I ought to go expressly to see the surgeon, but she means to throw out the suggestion when we shall be in town together, and in this way she has decided, with her usual thoughtfulness, to spare me the anticipation of hearing that I am not going on as well as I ought to be doing. It is, however, much too hot to think of going up to London, so for the present none of Palestrina's deep-laid plans have been successful. It is broiling hot weather even down here in the country, but the mornings are cool and fresh, and, after tossing about half the night, I generally get up and go for a feeble sort of walk before breakfast. It is extraordinary how new and fresh the world feels in the early morning, while the dew is still on the grass, and the birds are singing without any fear that their concert will be stopped or disturbed by passers-by.
On my way home this morning I passed the Jamiesons' little house, and was hailed to come in by the flutter of nearly a dozen dinner-napkins waved to me from the window of the breakfast-room. It is impossible to pass Belmont without being asked to come in, or to leave the hospitable little house without an invitation to stay longer. Monday—this was Monday—is what the Jamiesons call "one of our busiest mornings," and I think that our good friends talk almost more than usual on the days on which they are most engaged.
As I entered the room, two of The Family had already finished breakfast, and were busy at a side-table, driving their sewing-machines. The whirring noise, added to the amount of talking that was going on, had rather a bewildering effect at first. There was, besides, the added confusion attendant upon what is known as "getting George off." The process seems to consist of shaking George into his City coat, brushing it, patting him on the back, telling him how nice he looks, hoping he will get down in the middle of the week, or at least not later than Friday afternoon, and giving him messages and remembrances to quite half a dozen friends in London. The Family chorus as I entered was something like this:—
"Cream or sugar, weak or strong?"
"Mettie, did you get your letters?"
"Eliza, which is your napkin-ring?"
"Please say what you will have; I have asked you at least half a dozen times."
"Do you mind the window open?"
"Does any one hear the bus?"