“Whither?”
“To Paris.”
“Paris! Why not say Timbuctoo?”
“I say Paris.”
“You are surely jesting.”
“I do not jest on so serious a subject as your health, my boy.”
“It can’t be done, father.”
“It must be done, Bertram. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday, and with him you shall go. He hopes to be in time for the opening of the Exhibition.”
“My Uncle Kirwan goes on business.”
“His nephew shall go on pleasure. Why, what’s the matter with you? Half the young fellows in New York would be half-mad with delight to be in your place.” Doctor Bertram Martin laughs. The idea is ridiculous, absurd. He cannot, he dare not leave his patients. That delightful case of tetanus, that splendid fracture of the hip, that exquisite tumor yielding to a new treatment, that interesting consumption, that curious cardiac dropsy, that superb typhus!