"Do you speak of the claret at the inn, after having tasted it?"
Mountjoy asked.
"What do you take me for?" cried Mr. Vimpany. "After all I have heard
of that claret, I am not fool enough to try it myself, I can tell you."
Mountjoy received this answer in silence. The doctor's ignorance and
the doctor's prejudice, in the matter of wine, had started a new train
of thought in Hugh's mind, which threatened serious consequences to Mr.
Vimpany himself. There was a pause at the table; nobody spoke. The
doctor saw condemnation of his rudeness expressed in his wife's face.
He made a rough apology to Mountjoy, who was still preoccupied. "No
offence, I hope? It's in the nature of me, sir, to speak my mind. If I
could fawn and flatter, I should have got on better in my profession.
I'm what they call a rough diamond. No, offence, I say?"
"None whatever, Mr. Vimpany."
"That's right! Try another glass of sherry."
Mountjoy took the sherry.
Iris looked at him, lost in surprise. It was unlike Hugh to be
interested in a stranger's opinion of wine. It was unlike him to drink
wine which was evidently not to his taste. And it was especially unlike
his customary courtesy to let himself fall into thought at dinner-time,
when there were other persons at the table. Was he ill? Impossible to
look at him, and not see that he was in perfect health. What did it
mean?
Finding Mountjoy inattentive, Mr. Vimpany addressed himself to Iris.
"I had to ride hard, Miss Henley, to get home in time for dinner. There
are patients, I must tell you, who send for the doctor, and then seem
to think they know more about it than the very man whom they have
called in to cure them. It isn't he who tells them what their illness
is; it's they who tell him. They dispute about the medical treatment
that's best for them, and the one thing they are never tired of doing
is talking about their symptoms. It was an old man's gabble that kept
me late to-day. However, the Squire, as they call him in these parts,
is a patient with a long purse; I am obliged to submit."
"A gentleman of the old school, dear Miss Henley," Mrs. Vimpany
explained. "Immensely rich. Is he better?" she asked, turning to her
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?"