"Yes, my lord," said Saunders, monotonously.

"Perhaps he will me; that might amuse me," said the other.

A moment later the doctor bowled into the apartment, tugging at his
gloves, as he ran.

The contrast between him and our poor rich friend is almost beyond human
language.

Here lay on a sofa Ipsden, one of the most distinguished young gentlemen
in Europe; a creature incapable, by nature, of a rugged tone or a coarse
gesture; a being without the slightest apparent pretension, but refined
beyond the wildest dream of dandies. To him, enter Aberford, perspiring
and shouting. He was one of those globules of human quicksilver one sees
now and then for two seconds; they are, in fact, two globules; their head
is one, invariably bald, round, and glittering; the body is another in
activity and shape, _totus teres atque rotundus;_ and in fifty years they
live five centuries. _Horum Rex Aberford_--of these our doctor was the
chief. He had hardly torn off one glove, and rolled as far as the third
flower from the door on his lordship's carpet, before he shouted:

"This is my patient, lolloping in pursuit of health. Your hand," added
he. For he was at the sofa long before his lordship could glide off it.

"Tongue. Pulse is good. Breathe in my face."

"Breathe in your face, sir! how can I do that?" (with an air of mild
doubt.)