grin, threw
himself back in the patients' chair, and unhooking his watch-chain,
began to swing round the big seal, pencil-case, and sovereign-purse
which hung at the end.

"No, thankye, doctor," he said. "Let's have the brandy-and-water, and
sugar purissima, as you folks call it now, and you can mix me up a tonic
and send it on."

"Certainly, my dear Poynter, certainly," said the doctor, going to a
closet, and taking out a spirit decanter, tumbler, and sugar, which he
placed upon the stained green-baize table-cover, smilingly looking on
afterwards with a little bright copper kettle in his hand as his visitor
poured out liberally into his glass.

"All right, eh, doctor?" said the young man, looking up in the bland,
smooth face, with a good many wrinkles about his right eye.

"I--er--do not understand you."

"Brandy all right? No pilly-coshy or anything of that sort in it? Fill
right up."

"No," said the doctor, smiling. "It's the best brandy, and I'll take a
little with you."

He filled up his guest's glass, and then smilingly took a second tumbler
from the cupboard, and mixed himself a draught.

"Yes, not bad brandy, doctor, but wants age," said Poynter, rinsing his
mouth with the hot spirit and water, as if he had been cleaning his
teeth. "Now, I have a few dozen of a fine old cognac in my cellar that
would give this fifty in a hundred, and lick it hollow."

Perhaps to be expressive, Mr James Poynter shuffled his shoulders
against the cushion of the chair and licked his lips, ending with a
fish-like smack.

"Let me send you a dozen, doctor."

"No, no, my dear sir. I did not know you were in the wine and spirit
trade."

"Stuff and nonsense!"

"And I could not afford--"

"Yah! Who asked you to? I meant as a present. Wine and spirit trade,
indeed! Hang it! Do I look like a publican?"

Dr Chartley told an abominable lie, for if ever man, from the crown of
his pomatumed head, down over his prominent nubbey forehead, small eyes,
prominent cheekbones, unpleasant nose, and heavy jaw, to the toes of his
boots, looked like a fast, race-attending licenced victualler, it was
James Poynter.

Dr Chartley said, in answer to the indignant question, "No."

"Humph!" ejaculated the visitor, mollifying himself with a large draught
of brandy-and-water. "I should think not, indeed. I shall send you a
dozen of that brandy."

"No, no, I beg!" said the doctor earnestly; and his white forehead
puckered up