what looked like a last opportunity of cycling across country to the cathedral town, and was pumping up my tyres after dinner when I was told that "the doctor's mother and sister" had called to see him, and would like to speak with me. Wondering what they could possibly want, I obeyed the summons, and found them sitting in the parlour consulting-room. The mother was an aristocratic-looking old dame, with that kind of silvery hair which always looks as if it had been powdered in the fashion of long ago, its striking effect being heightened by a pair of very piercing black eyes. The daughter, barring the white hair, was a replica of her mother, and, I should say, if anything, more handsome and elegant than she had ever been; altogether greater contrasts to the son and brother it would be difficult to imagine. The old lady received my explanations with a stately grace through which I thought I could detect more than a shadow of annoyance.
"Did my son leave no message for me when he went away?" she inquired.
"None whatever that I am aware of; but perhaps the housekeeper"
"My son would leave no message with a servant!" she interrupted, and went on, "It is really very strange. I wrote and said we should be here to-day."
"Have you come far?"
"From London," rather shortly; and then resumed her catechism. "Has Dr. Inns been gone long?"
"Nearly a fortnight. I expect him back in a day or two."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"To London, I think."
"Did he leave you no address then?"
"Only that of the agent through whom he engaged me."
Her ladyship looked supercilious.
"I am very much obliged to you," she said rising. "I will come again as soon as Dr. Inns returns."
I should have liked much to lengthen the interview. The daughter had never said a word the whole time, and I was anxious to hear her voice. Meanwhile, she had been looking round the room, and whenever her eyes met mine they regarded me as unconcernedly as if I were part of the furniture—a mere chattel of the place. Such eyes as they were too! Deep and liquid, with none of her mother’s keenness about them. (I was young and susceptible in those days.) But as I could think of nothing to detain them longer, I could only rise with the best grace I could muster, and as I showed them to the door the silent maiden so far condescended as to return my bow with a half smile. After all, it is not in woman to resent homage, even if it is unspoken; and I must have disclosed the admiration I felt for her as plainly as if I had fallen on my knees to humbly avow it.
The next morning brought a letter from Inns. He was anxious to know how the patients were going on—at least he said so, but seeing how little he appeared to trouble about them when at home I was sceptical as to his interest in them when away. The letter was very brief—only half a dozen lines or so; and he addressed it from Adamson's office. The housekeeper was clearing the breakfast table as I read it, and apologetically asked me for any news of Inns.
"Well, really, Mrs. Walsham, the doctor says nothing about himself, and only asks me about the patients."
"Ah, he'll be sorry to hear his dear mother and sister have been again. It seems so misfortunate 'tis always so."
"Why, have they missed each other before?" (I never encourage servants to talk, but for once my curiosity got the better of my judgment.)
"Time and again, sir, have they been; but the doctor he's always away from home at the time."
"Do you mean to say they never meet?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. I've been with the doctor all the time he's lived in Hestford—and that's two year come next Michaelmas—and never yet have they found him. I thought maybe he'd gone up to Lon'on to see them."
A curious state of things, truly, I thought. The situation was even farcical, if farce could possibly be associated with such a haughty pair as the lady and her daughter. I hesitated whether I should say anything about them in my reply. I had an opinion, and a very decided one, as to the two patients, but that I shrank from giving Inns at present, and certainly not in writing; while if I avoided the subject, really I should have nothing to say to him. In the end I alluded to the patients with a vague optimism, and filled up the letter with an account of his visitors, adding that they hoped to see him on his return.
Inns must have been in close attendance at Adamson's, for he sent a reply practically by return of post. He was very
