"Hullo," he said; "been picking flowers?"
The poet looked up.
"A pretty flower, the foxglove," he murmured.
"Digitalis purpurea—a drug, too, is it not?"
The doctor nodded.
"It has an action on the heart," he said. "Steadies and slows it, you know."
But the poet shook his head.
"I fancy you are mistaken," he observed.