It was a long, thin, white finger, one which had felt the throbbing of hundreds and thousands of pulses, and Doctor Praed, after viciously flicking at a fly which tried persistently to settle upon his ivory-white, shiny, bald head, hooked that finger into Clive Reed’s button-hole, just below the white rosebud Janet had given him a little earlier in the evening.
“Mind the flower.”
“All right, puppy. Come here. I want to talk to you.”
“About Janet?”
“Pish! mawkish youth. Great ugly fellow like you thinking of nothing else but Janet. Wait till you’ve been her slave as I have for eighteen years.”
“Pleasant slavery, Doctor,” said the young man, smiling, as he allowed himself to be led out on to the verandah just over the gas-lamp which helped to light up Great Guildford Street, W.C.
“Is it, sir? You don’t know what a jealous little she-tartar she is.”
“I warn you I shall tell her every word you say, Doctor. But it’s of no good. I shall not back out. Look at her dear face now.”
Reed caught the little Doctor by the shoulder, and pointed to where his daughter sat with the light of one of the shaded lamps falling upon her pretty, animated face, as she laughed at something a sharp-looking, handsome young man was saying—an anecdote of some kind which amused the rest of the group in old Grantham Reed’s drawing-room.
“Oh yes, she’s pretty enough,” said the Doctor testily. “I wish she weren’t. Don’t let that brother of yours be quite so civil to her, boy. I don’t like Jessop.”
“Nor me?” said the young man, smiling.
“Of course I don’t, sir. Hang it all! how can a man like the young scoundrel who robs him of his child’s love?”
“No, sir,” said Clive Reed gravely; “only evokes a new love that had lain latent, and offers him the love and respect of a son as well.”
Doctor Praed caught the young man’s hand in his and gave it a firm pressure. Then he cleared his throat before he spoke again, but his voice sounded husky as he said—
“God bless you, my dear boy.”
And then he stopped, and stood gazing through the window at the pleasant little party, as two neatly-dressed maids entered and began to remove the tea-things, one taking out the great plated urn, while the other collected the cups and saucers.
“The old man hasn’t bad taste in maids,” he said, with his voice still a little shaky, and as if he wanted to steady it before going on with something he wished to say. “Why don’t he have men?”
“He will not. He prefers to have maids about.”
“Then he ought to have ugly ones,” continued the Doctor, who keenly watched the movements of the slight, pretty, fair girl who was collecting the cups, and who exchanged glances with Jessop Reed as she took the cup and saucer he handed her. “A man who has two ugly scoundrels of sons has no business to keep damsels like that.”
“This ugly scoundrel is always out and busy over mining matters; that ugly scoundrel is living away at chambers, money-making at the Stock Exchange,” said Clive, smiling.
“Humph! Mining and undermining. Well, young men like to look at pretty girls.”
“Of course, Doctor,” said Clive. “I do. I’m looking now at the prettiest, sweetest—”
...