"Oh, doctor!" began the little lady, in a breathless, excited way, with hardly any stops, "I saw your plate on the door, and I've come to see if you can cure my darling little Bijon; a great cruel cabman has just driven over him, and I'm afraid his poor leg's broken. Will you look?"
Harold could hardly restrain a smile. "I am not a veterinary surgeon, madam."
Harold perceived an expression of despair flit over her features.—p. 405.
"I told you it was no use coming here," growled Miss Pepper, the companion, in a voice as unamiable as her face.
"Oh, but poor Bijou is in such pain!"
With that Miss Geare burst into passionate tears and again entreated Harold's aid. To end the tiresome scene, he examined the dog, unprofessional though it might be, and, finding one of its legs was broken, improvised splints and set it carefully. Miss Geare's gratitude was excessive.
"And you will come and see Bijou, won't you?" implored the old lady. "He must have attention until he gets well, and I live at Lyndhurst Lodge, Murray Road."
Harold demurred, as being unprofessional.
"Then come to attend me," eagerly responded Miss Geare. "I'm often rather ailing; and you can give Bijou a look at the same time."