Vimpany hardly even made a pretence at
listening. With a frowning face he applied the stethoscope, felt the
pulse, looked at the tongue--and drew his own conclusions in sullen
silence. If the nurse had a favourable report to make, he brutally
turned his back on her. If discouraging results of the medical
treatment made their appearance at night, and she felt it a duty to
mention them, he sneered as if he doubted whether she was speaking the
truth. Mr. Oxbye's inexhaustible patience and amiability made endless
allowances for his medical advisor. "It is my misfortune to keep my
devoted doctor in a state of perpetual anxiety," he used to say; "and
we all know what a trial to the temper is the consequence of unrelieved
suspense. I believe in Mr. Vimpany." Fanny was careful not to betray
her own opinion by making any reply; her doubts of the doctor had, by
this time, become terrifying doubts even to herself. Whenever an
opportunity favoured her, she vigilantly watched him. One of his ways
of finding amusement, in his leisure hours, was in the use of a
photographic apparatus. He took little pictures of the rooms in the
cottage, which were followed by views in the garden. Those having come
to an end, he completed the mystification of the nurse by producing a
portrait of the Dane, while he lay asleep one day after he had been
improving in health for some little time past.
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