The proximate cause of her delicacy did not appear to interest him as it had done Dr. Chickton. As a narrative, Heather’s story might have its merits, so his manner seemed to imply; but, in so far as it afforded the slightest assistance to his comprehension of the disease, she might have spared herself the trouble of repeating it. He wrote a prescription, against his will, Heather imagined, and then he rose, signifying thereby that the interview was terminated. “What do you think of her?” Mrs. Dudley ventured to inquire, as she laid the fee wrapped up like the curl of which Mr. Stewart had spoken, in a piece of note-paper on the table, guiltily, and as if she had committed a sin, “what do you think of her?” “I should like to look at her again,” said Mr. Henry. “No, you need not bring her here; I will call some day when I am in your neighbourhood. Have you seen Mr. Stewart lately?” “Last week,” Heather answered. “Was he quite well? Ah! glad to hear that; wonderful man; astonishing energy; wonderful—wonderful!” and, amidst these exclamations, Mr. Henry cleverly manœuvred his visitors to the door of his consulting-room, where he consigned them to the care of an individual who, although he demeaned himself like an archbishop, and looked like a master undertaker, was yet kind enough to see Mrs. Dudley into her cab, and tell the driver to return to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Before Heather expected him to do so, Mr. Rymner Henry called. In her drawing-room, he seemed a very different individual to the Mr. Henry who had been so stiff and so stand-off in his own domains. He talked a good deal to Mrs. Dudley, and some amenities were exchanged between him and Lally, who preferred a petition on her own account against any more medicine, “for I am well now,” she assured him, “better as well.” “What does she mean by that expression?” inquired Mr. Henry. “Better than well, I imagine,” Heather explained. “I do not know where she heard the phrase, but she adopted it during her first severe illness, and has since continued to use it.” “And you think you are too well to require medicine?” he added, addressing the child. “Iss.” Lally’s speaking was still, as Mrs. Ormson declared, in a deplorably backward condition. “But if you do not take the medicine I order, you may get ill again.” Lally turned this view of the question over in her mind, and then remarked, “it would be time enough to have the medicine when she did get ill again.” “Your mamma does not think so.” “But then ma has not to take it.” “Your mamma would not object to taking anything I ordered, if she thought that would cure her little girl,”—at which remark Heather held out her arms to Lally, and the mother and child went through one of those pantomimes which supply the place of all assurance, as they elude all description.