"What did he say?"
"That there was constitutional delicacy, and that unless he went for a couple of winters to the south of Europe, and after that wintered at Penzance, Torquay, or Bournemouth, he would be a dead man. But, if he took proper care of himself and lived well, drank cod-liver oil and old port, kept out of east winds and from getting wet, he might yet make old bones."
"That is out of the question," said Welsh; "he shall have De Jongh's cod-liver oil, and inhale carbolic acid, and wear Dr. Jaeger's all-wool—to go to the south of Europe is impracticable."
"Not at all."
"My dear Miss Inglett, not another word. I will do all I can for the rascal. But I cannot afford that."
"But I can."
"I won't allow it. I am very sorry for the boy, and will do my duty by him as his uncle; but I can't send him to the Riviera."
"But it is settled that he is going."
"How? When?"
"Directly, and with me."
"Nonsense, Miss Inglett."
"And I have a house at Bournemouth."
"That is true; but——"
"But I am going to marry him, so as to be able to nurse him and carry him off to Bordighera, and give him De Jongh's cod-liver oil myself."
"Miss Inglett, in reason!"
"It is settled. I settled it. I have paid Mrs. Bankes for the eggs and all the rest. When we are off together we can talk at our leisure about Orleigh."
