husband.

"Better?" cried the outspoken doctor. "Pooh! there's nothing the matter
with him but gluttony. He went to London, and consulted a great man, a
humbug with a handle to his name. The famous physician got rid of him
in no time--sent him abroad to boil himself in foreign baths. He came
home again worse than ever, and consulted poor Me. I found him at
dinner--a perfect feast, I give you my word of honour!--and the old
fool gorging himself till he was black in the face. His wine, I should
have said, was not up to the mark; wanted body and flavour, you know.
Ah, Mr. Mountjoy, this seems to interest you; reminds you of the
landlady's wine--eh? Well, sir, how do you think I treated the Squire?
Emptied his infirm old inside with an emetic--and there he was on his
legs again. Whenever he overeats himself he sends for me; and pays
liberally. I ought to be grateful to him, and I am. Upon my soul, I
believe I should be in the bankruptcy court but for the Squire's
stomach. Look at my wife! She's shocked at me. We ought to keep up
appearances, my dear? Not I! When I am poor, I say I am poor. When I
cure a patient, I make no mystery of it; everybody's welcome to know
how it's done. Don't be down-hearted, Arabella; nature never meant your
husband for a doctor, and there's the long and the short of it. Another
glass of sherry, Mr. Mountjoy?"

All social ceremonies--including the curious English custom which sends
the ladies upstairs, after dinner, and leaves the gentlemen at the
table--found a devoted adherent in Mrs. Vimpany. She rose as if she had
been presiding at a banquet, and led Miss Henley affectionately to the
drawing-room. Iris glanced at Hugh. No; his mind was not at ease yet;
the preoccupied look had not left his face.