"I want you just to run over me," he said, with his eyes on a dangling stethoscope, "to run over me rather thoroughly."
I glanced at him anxiously. But in his evening clothes he seemed even lither and more bronzed than ever.
"Feeling bad anywhere?" I inquired. But he shook his head.
"Rather fit," he admitted, as he took off his coat and waistcoat. And as I suspected, I could find nothing wrong with him. On the contrary, he appeared to be in the very pink of condition, for all his tropical sojournings.
"Good," he said; "and, as a matter of fact, I saw Manson this morning, and West this afternoon, and they both told me the same thing."
I began to laugh at him, though he was speaking very seriously. "You're surely not becoming a hypochondriac?" I asked.
"No," he said gravely; "I don't think so. But I'm forty-seven, you see. And I want to get married."
I was, perhaps, rather taken aback at this, though I scarcely knew why. And he himself appeared to consider the idea as savouring somewhat of presumption. For he blushed a little as he slowly collected his clothes. Somehow we had neither of us thought of him as being a marrying man. Then, as he began to dress himself again, I congratulated him, and asked him if the lady was known to me. He hesitated for a moment, and then smiled.
"Yes, I think she is," he said; "though I doubt if you'd consider me much of a husband for her."