He grew pale around his rouge. "You would not, surely."
"Would I not? Come, now, I won't tell—oh, not every one. Be a good doctor. I have quarreled with Dr. Rush—and come and see me to-morrow. I have a horrid rheum. And as to Citizen Jefferson, he won't die, more's the pity."
He knew from the first he must go, and by good luck no one he knew was in sight to turn him into ridicule for the pleasure of the great Federalist dames.
"Give him his wig, Tom." The little doctor sadly regarded the dusty wig. Then he readjusted his head-gear and said he would go.
"Now, that's a good doctor. Come," and she rode off again after him, by no means inclined to set him free to change his mind.
At Mrs. Swanwick's door, as he got out of his chaise, she said: "This lady speaks only French. She is the Vicomtesse de Courval. And now, mind you, Doctor, no citizenesses or any such Jacobin nonsense."
"A votre service, madame," he said, and rapped discreetly low, feeling just at present rather humble and as meek as Ça Ira.
Mistress Wynne waited until the door closed behind him, and then rode away refreshed. Turning to her black groom, she said, "If you tell, Tom, I will kill you."
"Yes, missus."
"At all events, he won't bleed her," she reflected, "and he has more good sense than most of them. That young fellow is a fine figure of a man. I wonder what kind of clerk Hugh will make of him. I must have him to dine."