"A word with you, if you please, Basil Arbuthnot," said Dr. Chéron,
"when you have finished copying those prescriptions."

Dr. Chéron was standing with his feet firmly planted in the tiger-skin
rug and his back to the fireplace. I was busy writing at the study
table, and glancing anxiously from time to time at the skeleton clock
upon the chimney-piece; for it was getting on fast towards five, and at
half-past six I was to take Josephine to the Opéra Comique. As perverse
fortune would have it, the Doctor had this afternoon given me more
desk-work than usual, and I began to doubt whether I should be able to
dine, dress, and reach the theatre in time if he detained me
much longer.

"But you need be in no haste," he added, looking at his watch. "That is
to say, upon my account."

I bowed nervously--I was always nervous in his presence--and tried to
write faster than ever; but, feeling his cold blue eye upon me, made a
blot, smeared it with my sleeve, left one word out, wrote another twice
over, and was continually tripped up by my pen, which sputtered
hideously and covered the page with florid passages in little round
spots, which only needed tails to become crotchets and quavers. At
length, just as the clock struck the hour, I finished my task and laid
aside my pen.

Dr. Chéron coughed preparatorily.

"It is some time," said he, "since you have given me any news of your
father. Do you often hear from him?"