"Bolter," exclaimed Mrs B, "if you confess to me that you kissed her I'll have a divorce--I'll go straight back to England?" "Kiss her? Not I!--ho, ho, ho!--I gave her such a dose; and I kept her extremely poorly for about a week. She--she hates me like she does physic. Oh, dear me!" The doctor wiped his eyes, burst into another fit of laughing, and then, after another wipe at his eyes, his face smoothed down and he grew composed. "Then it's a pity you don't give her another dose of medicine," said his lady, "and prevent her doing so much mischief as she is doing here." "But really, my dear, you have no right to accuse me of being extra polite to Helen Perowne." "I did not, and I was not about to accuse you of being extra polite to Helen Perowne--_extra polite_, as you call it, sir; but I was about to connect her name with that of other gentlemen, and not with that of my husband." "Oh! come, that's a comfort," said the doctor. "What is it then about Helen Perowne?" "I don't like the way in which she is going on," said Mrs Doctor, "and I am quite sure that no good will come of it. I don't think there is any real harm in the girl." "Harm? No, I don't think there is," said Dr Bolter. "She's very handsome, and she has been spoiled by flattery." "Administered by foolish men like someone we know," said the lady. "H'm! yes--well, perhaps so; but really she is too bad. The fellows seem to run mad after her." "Did you see her talking to the Rajah last night?" "Yes, I saw her; and then poor Hilton began to singe his wings in the candle, and next week she will have somebody else. I know what I'd do if I had to prescribe for her." "And what might that be, sir?" "I'd prescribe a husband, such a one as Harley--a firm, strong-minded, middle-aged man, who would keep a tight hand at the rein and bring her to her senses. I daresay she'd make a man a good wife, after all." "Perhaps so," said Mrs Doctor, pursing up her lips; "but meantime, as you are not called upon to prescribe, what is to be done?" "To be done? Why, nothing." "Oh! but something must be done, Bolter. You ought to speak to Mr Perowne." "And be called an idiot for my pains. No, thank you, my dear. In all such delicate matters as these a lady's hand--I should say, tongue--is the instrument to set matters right. Now, I should say the proper thing would be for a quiet, sensible, clever, middle-aged lady--may I speak of you as a middle-aged lady, my dear--" "Don't be stupid, Henry. I'm forty-four, as you well know, and I never pretended to be younger." "No, of course not. You fired forty years at me in a platoon when I proposed, like the dear, sensible old darling you are." "Tut! Hush! Silence, sir! No more of that, please." "All right, my dear. Well, as I was saying, suppose you have a quiet talk to the girl yourself." Mrs Bolter knitted her brows and looked very thoughtful.