Almost every man I have met
has been delightful in his own way.... I had just written that last
sentence when a servant brought in a card inscribed "Colonel Simpson."
I got my sunshade and walked round to my sitting-room, where I found a
tall, pensive-looking man. Thinking he must be a friend of Boggley's,
I held out my hand frankly, and having shaken it, the man went on
holding it.
Like Captain Hook, I murmured to myself, "This is unusual," but I
tried to conceal my astonishment, and we sat down together on the
sofa. Then he began to _feel my pulse_. By this time I had made up my
mind he must be a lunatic, and I had a wild idea of snatching away my
hand and making a bound for the window; but feeling that my legs were
too weak with fright to be of any real use to me, I remained seated.
"Are you sick?" he asked.
"Not in the least, thank you," I stammered.
A doubtful look flickered over his pensive countenance.
"Are you not my patient?" he asked.
"No," I answered truthfully.
"But--I was sent for to a Mrs. Woodward; this was the address, and I
was shown in here."
He was so upset that I hastened to assure him it did not matter in the
least; that Mrs. Woodward lived above us, and it was quite, quite all
right. But my comforting protestations profited nothing, and the poor
man retired in great confusion, murmuring incoherently. If I had seen
"doctor" on his card I might have been prepared, but who would expect
a Colonel to be a doctor? This confusing India!
_Later_,
This has been a queer day! Nothing but alarums and excursions.
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