What
do you say to that way of putting it? Ha! my brains are in good working
order to-day; I haven't been drinking any of Mr. Mountjoy's claret--do
you take the joke, Miss Henley?"
Chuckling over the recollection of his own drunken audacity, he
happened to notice Fanny Mere.
"Hullo! is this another injured person in want of me? You're as white
as a sheet, Miss. If you're going to faint, do me a favour--wait till I
can get the brandy-bottle. Oh! it's natural to you, is it? I see. A
thick skin and a slow circulation; you will live to be an old woman. A
friend of yours, Miss Henley?"
Fanny answered composedly for herself: "I am Miss Henley's maid, sir."
"What's become of the other one?" Mr. Vimpany asked. "Aye? aye? Staying
at a farm-house for the benefit of her health, is she? If I had been
allowed time enough, I would have made a cure of Rhoda Bennet. There
isn't a medical man in England who knows more than I do of the nervous
maladies of women--and what is my reward? Is my waiting-room crammed
with rich people coming to consult me? Do I live in a fashionable
Square? Have I even been made a Baronet? Damn it--I beg your pardon,
Miss Henley--but it is irritating, to a man of my capacity, to be
completely neglected.
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