you; one better than another. You were looking charming at Boxall Hill; but, upon my word, charming isn't half strong enough now.'
Mary sat down quietly, and the doctor assumed a face of unutterable disgust. This was the creature for whom all his sympathies had been demanded, all his best energies put in requisition; on whose behalf he was to quarrel with his oldest friends, lose his peace and quietness of life, and exercise all the functions of a loving friend! This was his self-invited guest, whom he was bound to foster, and whom he could not turn from his door.
Then dinner came, and Mary had to put her hand upon his arm. She certainly did not lean upon him, and once or twice felt inclined to give him some support. They reached the dining-room, however, the doctor following them, and then sat down, Janet waiting in the room, as was usual.
'I say, doctor,' said the baronet, 'hadn't my man better come in and help? He's got nothing to do, you know. We should be more cosy, shouldn't we?'
'Janet will manage pretty well,' said the doctor.
'Oh, you'd better have Joe; there's nothing like a good servant at table. I say, Janet, just send that fellow in, will you?'
'We shall do very well without him,' said the doctor, becoming rather red about the cheek-bones, and with a slight gleam of determination about the eye. Janet, who saw how matters stood, made no attempt to obey the baronet's order.
'Oh, nonsense, doctor; you think he's an uppish sort of fellow, I know, and you don't like to trouble him; but when I'm near him, he's all right; just send him in, will you?'
'Sir Louis,' said the doctor, 'I'm accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I'll keep my old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable.' The baronet said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough.
When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only work of existence of which he knew anything.
'That's good port,' said he; 'very fair port.'
The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar.
'Yes,' said he, 'it's pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got it, twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time has hurt it:'
