The Lady Letitia’s face expressed surprise. Her manner suggested to Mr. Stott that he had not impressed her with any great degree of authority in the art of healing.
“We thought we would have your opinion, sir,” she explained, “as a temporary satisfaction. Should my nephew show signs of serious indisposition, we shall send for a responsible physician to attend him. Now, sir, will you oblige me with your candid opinion as to Mr. Jeffray’s health.”
Surgeon Stott was watching the old lady with grim curiosity. She was a distinct study in aristocratic arrogance with her air of condescending patronage, and her detestable old face painted and powdered to the very complexion of her vanity.
“If you care to consider my opinion, madam—”
“Well, sir?”
“I may state that Mr. Jeffray is sickening with the small-pox.”
“What!”
The Lady Letitia perked up like a frightened hen, much to Surgeon Stott’s inward satisfaction.
“That is my diagnosis, madam,” he said. “I have bled Mr. Jeffray of ten ounces, and ordered him to be sponged with tepid water. One of the grooms is to ride back with me to Rookhurst for the physic. There will be a fever mixture and a bolus. Can I oblige your ladyship in any way?”
The dowager plied her handkerchief and strove to recover her disturbed dignity. Richard with the small-pox! How deplorably vexatious, not to say—inconsiderate—her nephew’s illness appeared! Meanwhile, Surgeon Stott had risen. He bowed to the dowager till his tight riding-breeches creaked, and seemed not a little amused at the old lady’s fluster.