A Glimpse Of Butter In Its
Cheese-Rind Had Given Me An Unpleasant Sensation.
The goat's milk I
swallowed thankfully, and, glad of the daylight, lay somewhat more
at my ease awaiting Dr. Sculco.
He arrived about half-past nine, and was agreeably surprised to find
me no worse. But the way in which his directions had been carried
out did not altogether please him. He called the landlady, and
soundly rated her. This scene was interesting, it had a fine flavour
of the Middle Ages. The Doctor addressed mine hostess of the
Concordia as "thou," and with magnificent disdain refused to hear
her excuses; she, the stout, noisy woman, who ruled her own
underlings with contemptuous rigour, was all subservience before
this social superior, and whined to him for pardon. "What water is
this?" asked Dr. Sculco, sternly, taking up the corked jar that
stood on the floor. The hostess replied that it was drinking water,
purchased with good money. Thereupon he poured out a little, held it
up to the light, and remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, "I don't
believe you."
However, in a few minutes peace was restored, and the Doctor
prescribed anew. After he had talked about quinine and cataplasms,
he asked me whether I had any appetite. A vision of the dining-room
came before me, and I shook my head. "Still," he urged, "it would be
well to eat something." And, turning to the hostess, "He had better
have a beefsteak and a glass of Marsala." The look of amazement with
which I heard this caught the Doctor's eye.
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