The old fellow--his name
was Rivershaw--was a most peculiar survival. He smelled of mackintosh,
had round purplish cheeks, a rim of hair which people said he dyed, and
bulging grey eyes slightly bloodshot. He was short in body and wind,
drank port wine, was suspected of taking snuff, read The Times, spoke
always in a husky voice, and used a very small brougham with a very old
black horse. But he had a certain low cunning, which had defeated many
ailments, and his reputation for assisting people into the world stood
extremely high. Every morning punctually at twelve, the crunch of his
little brougham's wheels would be heard. Winton would get up, and,
taking a deep breath, cross the hall to the dining-room, extract from
a sideboard a decanter of port, a biscuit-canister, and one glass. He
would then stand with his eyes fixed on the door, till, in due time, the
doctor would appear, and he could say:
"Well, doctor? How is she?"
"Nicely; quite nicely."
"Nothing to make one anxious?"
The doctor, puffing out his cheeks, with eyes straying to the decanter,
would murmur:
"Cardiac condition, capital--a little--um--not to matter. Taking its
course. These things!"
And Winton, with another deep breath, would say:
"Glass of port, doctor?"
An expression of surprise would pass over the doctor's face.
"Cold day--ah, perhaps--" And he would blow his nose on his
purple-and-red bandanna.
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