invaluable friend, with all the poetry of memory.
Pleasant was the sound of Mrs. Clarke's clogs deposited in the hall—a whole host of circumstantial details, inferences, and deductions, waited thereupon; or when the Doctor could be induced to stir out of an evening by the overpowering temptation of "my dear, poor Mrs. Arundel is all alone: it would be but kind if we stepped in to see how she is."
"All alone, indeed! Hasn't she got her niece?"
"Ah! that puts me in mind that Miss Emily was saying you owed her her revenge at chess."
"Did you tell cook to put by the leg of the turkey, to be deviled for my supper?"
"Talking of supper, poor Mrs. Arundel would keep a pheasant, sent yesterday, for our supper to-night. I can assure you she quite relied on our coming; and, to tell you the truth, I did not refuse. I am always glad when you go to the Hall—that old Port wine of poor dear Mr. Arundel's is quite a medicine to you."
"Well, as you say, poor thing! she is very lonely—I don't care if we do go; though Miss Emily is not much company, except to play chess."
