There was but one voice at home on the point whether Fleda
should go. So she went.


CHAPTER V.


_Host_. Now, my young guest! methinks you're allycholy; I pray
you why is it?
_Jul_. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.


Some nights after their arrival, the doctor and Fleda were
seated at tea in the little snug old-fashioned back parlour,
where the doctor's nicest of housekeepers, Mrs. Pritchard, had
made it ready for them. In general, Mrs. Pritchard herself
poured it out for the doctor, but she descended most
cheerfully from her post of elevation, whenever Fleda was
there to fill it.

The doctor and Fleda sat cozily looking at each other across
the toast and chipped beef, their glances grazing the tea-urn,
which was just on one side of their range of vision. A
comfortable Liverpool-coal fire in a state of repletion burned
away indolently, and gave everything else in the room somewhat
of its own look of sonsy independence — except, perhaps, the
delicate creature at whom the doctor, between sips of his tea,
took rather wistful observations.