“How frivolous you doctors are!”
Dr. Little wiped a streak of custard from his mustache with his dinner napkin.
“It is my hour of relaxation. Haven’t you heard the tale of the two bishops who played leap-frog at the end of a church conference. But, to be serious, what are the symptoms?”
“She seems rather feverish and has a sore throat. I noticed something that looked like herpes on her lip.”
“Herpes, eh? Will she let me see her?”
“I’ll run up and ask.”
“Thanks. Is the paper reposing anywhere? Oh, don’t bother. On the window-sill? Thanks, much obliged.”
And he propped the paper against the decanter, and so consoled himself with the happy facility of a bachelor.
Betty Steel, in a richly laced dressing-jacket, was sitting up in bed with Persian Mignon in her lap.
“Bring the man up, dear, if it will give you any satisfaction. Any news in the town?”