IN RAYBECK SQUARE.
‘Oh, you wicked old woman! Ah, you dare to cry, and I’ll send you to bed.’
‘No, no, auntie, don’t, please. What will dear Isabel think? You’re not going to spoil a delightful evening?’
‘Of course she is not. Here, old lady; have another glass of claret– medicinally.’
Dr Chester jumped up, gave his sister and the visitor a merry look, took the claret to the head of the table and refilled his own glass.
But the lady shook her grey sausage curls slowly, and elaborately began to unfold a large bordered pocket-handkerchief, puckered up her plump countenance, gazed piteously at the sweet face on her right, bent her head over to her charming niece on the left, and then proceeded to up a few tears.
‘No, no, no, Fred; not a drop more. It only makes me worse; I can’t help it, my love.’
‘Yes, you can, old lady. Come, try and stop it. You’ll make Bel cry too.’
‘I wish she would, Fred, and repent before it’s too late.’
‘What!’ cried the doctor.
‘Don’t shout at me, my dear. I want to see her repent. It’s very nice to see the carriages come trooping, and to know what a famous doctor you are; but you don’t understand my complaint, Fred.’
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