Understanding and despising him, the doctor's devilish gaiety indulged
in facetious reminiscences of his own married life.
"If I could claim a sovereign," he said, "for every quarrel between
Mrs. Vimpany and myself, I put it at a low average when I declare that
I should be worth a thousand pounds. How does your lordship stand in
that matter? Shall we say a dozen breaches of the marriage agreement up
to the present time?"
"Say two--and no more to come!" his friend answered cheerfully.
"No more to come!" the doctor repeated. "My experience says plenty more
to come; I never saw two people less likely to submit to a peaceable
married life than you and my lady. Ha! you laugh at that? It's a habit
of mine to back my opinion. I'll bet you a dozen of champagne there
will be a quarrel which parts you two, for good and all, before the
year is out. Do you take the bet?"
"Done!" cried Lord Harry. "I propose my wife's good health, Vimpany, in
a bumper. She shall drink confusion to all false prophets in the first
glass of your champagne!"
The post of the next morning brought with it two letters.
One of them bore the postmark of London, and was addressed to Lady
Harry Norland.
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