Something is
evidently going on under the surface, in which my interests are
concerned--and, possibly, Oscar's interests too.
It all came about in this way.
On returning to the house, after Oscar had left me, I found that a letter
from Grosse had arrived by the afternoon post. My dear old surgeon wrote
to say that he was coming to see me--and added in a postscript that he
would arrive the next day at luncheon-time. Past experience told me that
this meant a demand on my aunt's housekeeping for all the good things
that it could produce. (Ah, dear! I thought of Madame Pratolungo and the
Mayonnaise. Will those times never come again?) Well--at dinner, I
announced Grosse's visit; adding significantly, "at luncheon-time."
My aunt looked up from her plate with a little start--not interested, as
I was prepared to hear, in the serious question of luncheon, but in the
opinion which my medical adviser was likely to give of the state of my
health.
"I am anxious to hear what Mr. Grosse says about you to-morrow," the old
lady began. "I shall insist on his giving me a far more complete report
of you than he gave last time. The recovery of your sight appears to me,
my dear, to be quite complete."
"Do you want me to be cured, aunt, because you want to get away?" I
asked. "Are you weary of Ramsgate?"
Miss Batchford's quick temper flashed at me out of Miss Batchford's
bright old eyes.
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