There was Billy--apparently a simple character, abruptly capable of
doing unexpected things; useful to-day, useless tomorrow. He called
up to mind the very competent doctor; John, and his friend--the moody
clergyman--beloved of all men. The doctor had said of him, "a man living
in the monastery of himself--in our world, but not of it."
"What amuses you, James?" asked his wife.
This good sign of return to her normal curiosity was familiarly pleasant.
"I was recalling, Ann, what McGregor said of Rivers after that horrid
time of sickness at Westways. You may remember it."
"No, I do not."
"No! He said that Rivers was a round-shouldered angel."
"That does not seem to me amusing, James."
"Round-shouldered he is, Ann, and for the rest you at least ought to
recognize your heavenly fellow-citizens when you meet them."
"Is that your poetry or your folly, James Penhallow?"
"Mine, my dear? No language is expansive enough for McGregor when he
talks about you."
"Nonsense, James. He knows how to please somebody. We were discussing
Mark Rivers."
"Were we? Then here is a nice little dose from the doctor for you. Last
Christmas, after you had personally sat up with old Mrs. Lamb when she
was so ill, and until I made a row about it--"
"Yes--yes--I know.
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