His kindness of heart and his passion for disagreeable affections gave to the pauper, in his eyes, a higher value than the statesman. He might have been a baronet, but he had no wife to urge him thereunto. A comfortable dinner was his sole vice, a few good cases his only desire.
He wore the traditional black clothes and white neckcloth, the capacious watch in the capacious fob. He carried the rattan with the gold knob, and, at times, even buckles in his shoes.
A little flower or sprig bedecked his upper button-hole. His walk was a trot, and a smile ever on his lips.
Moreover, nothing could be more commonplace than his ordinary conversation. A few truisms, parliamentary interjections, many technical references. His action was as that of one feeling a pulse, and he was always in a hurry to turn away and leave the room.
“Won’t you have a glass of wine, Mr Bromley?” asked the doctor, hospitably.
“Thanks, I am going to dine later.”
“Commodeque, Erasistratus dixit, sæpe, interiore parte humorem non requirente, os et fauces requirere.”
Dr Leadbitter lost no time in getting into the carriage.
The doctor overcame the gourmet, and, though at dinner, the voice of duty and of friendship prevailed.
“My dear doctor,” said Bromley, “Miss Constance has fallen very ill. She fell to the ground at Lady Ilminster’s breakfast. She was insensible all the way home. I suppose they have put her to bed, for I drove off at once for you.”