Pryor hailed him from the
garden.
"How's your patient, doctor?"
"Pretty sick. She didn't obey your sister's orders and keep in bed
yesterday. So, of course, she's worse to-day."
Mr. Pryor leaned a comfortable elbow on the green gate. "That's a nice
prospect! What am I going to have to eat?" he said, good-humoredly.
Yet behind the good humor there was annoyance. It came into William
King's mind that this fellow would not spare his sister his
irritation, and with a sudden impulse of concern for her, he said,
"Well now, look here, why don't you and Mrs. Richie come in this
evening and take tea with us? I don't know what you'll get, but come
and take pot-luck."
"Thank you," Lloyd Pryor said, "but--"
"Oh, come now," interrupted the doctor, gathering up his reins; "you
good people are not neighborly enough. We'll expect you both at six."
"You are very kind, but I think--" But William would not listen. He
was in great spirits. "It will be pot-luck, and my wife will be
delighted--" then, his voice dragged--"I hope you'll come," he said
uncertainly.
Mr. Pryor began to protest, but ended with a laugh. "Well, we'll come!
Thank you very much."
"That's good," the doctor said a little less cordially, indeed, as he
drove away he looked distinctly less cordial, and once he sighed....
Now, how should he put it? "Oh, Martha, by the way, Mr. Pryor and his
sister will drop in to tea to-night.
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