My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription.

"There, sir," said he, "get that preparation made up, and when you next
feel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful. I should recommend you
to keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. You will find further
directions on the other side."

The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; but
was obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair.

"Monsieur," said he, with another of his profound bows, "I thank you
infinitely. You make me too much attention; but I am grateful. And,
Monsieur, my little girl--my child that is far away across the sea--she
thanks you also. _Elle m'aime, Monsieur--elle m'aime, cette pauvre
petite_! What shall she do if I die?"

Again he raised his hand to his brow. He was unconscious of anything
theatrical in the gesture. He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wet
with tears, which he made no effort to conceal.

My father shuffled restlessly in his chair.

"No obligation--no obligation at all," he muttered, with a touch of
impatience in his voice. "And now, what about those tickets? I suppose,
Basil, you're dying to see all this tomfoolery?"

"That I am, sir," said I, joyfully. "I should like it above all things!"

The Chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cards