When the invitations had been accepted,
she would tell Lydgate, and give him a wise admonition as to how
a medical man should behave to his neighbors; for Rosamond had
the gravest little airs possible about other people's duties.
But all the invitations were declined, and the last answer came
into Lydgate's hands.
"This is Chichely's scratch. What is he writing to you about?"
said Lydgate, wonderingly, as he handed the note to her.
She was obliged to let him see it, and, looking at her severely,
he said--
"Why on earth have you been sending out invitations without
telling me, Rosamond? I beg, I insist that you will not invite
any one to this house. I suppose you have been inviting others,
and they have refused too." She said nothing.
"Do you hear me?" thundered Lydgate.
"Yes, certainly I hear you," said Rosamond, turning her head aside
with the movement of a graceful long-necked bird.
Lydgate tossed his head without any grace and walked out of the room,
feeling himself dangerous. Rosamond's thought was, that he
was getting more and more unbearable--not that there was any new
special reason for this peremptoriness. His indisposition to tell
her anything in which he was sure beforehand that she would not be
interested was growing into an unreflecting habit, and she was in
ignorance of everything connected with the thousand pounds except
that the loan had come from her uncle Bulstrode.
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