"None," I answered, with a sinking at my heart as I thought of
his bill for medical attendance.
"Will you pardon me?" he said, coloring and looking a little
uneasy, "or, rather, will you ascribe it to the friendly interest
I feel in you, if I ask whether Mr. Kerby realizes a comfortable
income by the practice of his profession? Don't," he went on
anxiously, before I could reply--"pray don't think I make this
inquiry from a motive of impertinent curiosity!"
I felt quite satisfied that he could have no improper motive for
asking the question, and so answered it at once plainly and
truly.
"My husband makes but a small income," I said. "Famous London
portrait-painters get great prices from their sitters; but poor
unknown artists, who only travel about the country, are obliged
to work hard and be contented with very small gains. After we
have paid all that we owe here, I am afraid we shall have little
enough left to retire on, when we take refuge in some cheaper
place."
"In that case," said the good doctor (I am so glad and proud to
remember that I always liked him from the first!), "in that case,
don't make yourself anxious about my bill when you are thinking
of clearing off your debts here. I can afford to wait till Mr.
Kerby's eyes are well again, and I shall then ask him for a
likeness of my little daughter. By that arrangement we are sure
to be both quits, and both perfectly satisfied.
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