She beckoned to Donald to take charge
of her mare, and then waylaid a passing girl, running from one sentry to
the other, and got her to show us the doctor's.
So we started thither, and as we went she said, "Really, Oliver, you are
inconsiderate at times."
"Nonsense," said I. "It's my head."
I was angry, not at her words, for I knew she did not mean them, but at
my inability to see what the fascinating jade was driving at.
"Inconsiderate," she repeated firmly. "You'd be content to be introduced
to the Prince with a great swathe of dirty, blood-stained linen round your
head, regardless of how it reflected on me."
"Reflected on you?" I echoed blankly.
"Yes. We shouldn't match. I suppose dear old Bloggs was a bachelor?"
"He was," said I, resigning the contest in despair.
The doctor lived in a fair-sized stick-and-wattle house. He was a dapper
little man, with a cleverish, weakling cast of face, and was all on the
jump with the turn things had taken. He had just opened the door to us,
and was eyeing us uncertainly, when the Colonel and the Chief, returning
on foot from their inspection, having left their horses to be baited under
the watchful eye of a Highlander, stopped beside us.
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