"Rather! Fancy having Dr. and Mrs. Vereker and the dear old fossil and nobody to help out!"
"My dear! You say 'Dr. and Mrs. Vereker' as if he was a married man!"
"Well—him and his mammy, then! He's good—but he's professional. Oh dear—his professional manner! You have to be forming square to receive cavalry every five minutes to prevent his writing you a prescription."
"Ungrateful little monkey! You know the last he wrote you did you no end of good."
"Yes, but I didn't ask him for it. He wrote it by force. I hate being hectored over and bullied. I say, mother!"
"What, kitten?"
"I hope, as Mr. Fenwick's coming, you'll wear your wedding-ring."
"Wear what?"
"Wear your wedding-ring. His ring, you know! You know what I mean—the rheumatic one."
"Of course I know perfectly well what you mean," says her mother, with a shade of impatience in her voice. "But why?"