“I hope, sir,” I said, “that I find you in good health and spirits.”
“Reasonable good, Kitty. A man of my years, be he never so temperate and regular in his habits, finds the slow tooth of time gnawing upon him. Let me look at thy face. Humph! one would say that the air of Epsom is good for young maids’ cheeks. But why in Fleet Market, child?”
“Partly, sir, I came to see you, and partly——”
“To see some one else, of whose lodging in the Rules I have been told by Sir Miles Lackington. Tell me—the young man whom he wounded, is he dead?”
“Nay, sir, not dead, but grievously wounded, and in a high fever.”
“So. A man in early manhood, who has been wounded by a sword running through his vitals, who four days after the event is still living, though in a high fever—that man, methinks, is likely to recover, unless his physician, as is generally the case, is an ass. For, my dear, there are as many incompetent physicians as there are incapable preachers. Their name is Legion. Well, Kitty, you came about Lord Chudleigh. Have you seen him?”
“Yes; but, sir, he does not know that I am here. I saw him”—here I blushed again—“in disguise as a housemaid.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed the Doctor. “Why, girl, thou hast more spirit than I gave thee credit for. Thou deservest him, and shalt have him, too. The time is come.” He rose and folded his gown about him, and put on his wig, which for coolness’ sake he had laid aside. “I will go to him and say, ‘My lord, the person to whom you were married is no other than——’”
“Oh! no, sir. I pray you do not speak to him in such fashion. Pray hear me first.”
“Well—well. Let us hear this little baggage.” The Doctor was in very good spirits, and eager to unfold this tale. He sat down again, however, and took up his pipe. “Go on, then, Kitty; go on—I am listening.”