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And the really terrible part of them is that, with you, they seem to be constitutional. No doctors can do anything when they're constitutional. There you are for the rest of your days!" Mrs. Sampson gave a little shiver. "I must say, Dr. Puddifoot seems to be very little use," she moaned. "Oh! Puddifoot!" Miss Stiles was contemptuous. "He's past his work. That's one comfort about this place.
Old Puddifoot, with all sorts of nods, winks and murmurs, alluded to mysterious medical secrets, and "how much he could tell an' he would," and that "he had said years ago about Brandon...." Well, never mind what he had said, but it was all turning out exactly as, for years, he had expected. Brandon might have been all his days the odd, muttering, eye-wandering figure that he now appeared.
I'll be quite willing to admit defeat." "Oh, a year's time!" She laughed more pleasantly. "A great deal can happen in a year. You may be a bishop by then, Canon Ronder," "Ah, that would be more than I deserve," he answered quite gravely. The little duel was over. She turned around, introduced him to Miss Dobell and Puddifoot, both of whom, however, he had already met.
"Yes, yes," said Puddifoot, his eyes staring up and down the street, as though they would burst out of his head. "Very good very good. See you later then," and so went blowing down the hill. Ronder passed under the gloomy portals of the Library and found his way, through faith rather than vision, up the stone stairs that smelt of mildew and blotting-paper, into the high dingy room.
He talked about the nectarines and plums that were soon to glorify his garden walls, about the pears and apples in his orchard, about the jokes that old Puddifoot made when he came over and examined his rheumatic limbs. He gently chaffed Ponting about his punctuality, neatness and general dislike of violent noises, and he bade Appleford to tell the housekeeper, Mrs.
But he would refuse to see Puddifoot; had seen him once, and had immediately quarrelled with him, and told him that he was a silly old fool and knew nothing about anything, and this when Puddifoot had come with the noblest motives, intending to patronise and condole. After dinner to-night Joan and he went into the drawing-room.
Puddifoot, looking up across from his seat in the side aisle, thought, "There's something the matter with him." Suddenly he paused, looked about him, stared over the congregation as though he were searching for somebody, then slowly again went on and finished: "Here endeth the Second Lesson."
"You tell anybody that I crossed a room without your hearing it, and they won't believe you. No, they wont." He bent down and kissed her. His touch tickled her cheek, but she made no movement. He felt, as his hand rested on her shoulder, that she was still trembling. "Your nerves must be in a bad way," he said. "Why, you're trembling still! Why don't you see Puddifoot?"
He also liked Puddifoot for himself; he always liked stout, big, red-faced men; they were easier to deal with than the thin severe ones. He knew that the time would very shortly arrive when Puddifoot would tell him one of his improper stories. That would sanctify the friendship. "Ha! Canon!" said Puddifoot, puffing like a seal. "Jolly day!"
Combermere, sheathed in cloth of gold and very jolly; Mrs. Ryle, humble in grey silk; Ellen Stiles in cherry colour; Mrs. Trudon, Mrs. Forrester and Mrs. D'Arcy, their chins nearly touching over eager confidences; Dr. Puddifoot, still breathless from his last dance; Bentinick-Major, tapping with his patent-leather toe the floor, eager to be at it again; Branston the Mayor and Mrs.
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