“It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here.  I never had much opinion of the sea air.”

“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir, or we should not have gone.  He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella’s throat,—­both sea air and bathing.”

“Ah, my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to anybody.  I am sure it almost killed me once.”

“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, “I must beg you not to talk of the sea.  It makes me envious and miserable; I who have never seen it!  South End is prohibited, if you please.  My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry after Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you.”

“Oh, good Mr. Perry, how is he, sir?”

“Why, pretty well; but not quite well.  Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself; he tells me he has not time to take care of himself—­which is very sad—­but he is always wanted all round the country.  I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere.  But then, there is not so clever a man anywhere.”

“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they?  Do the children grow?  I have a great regard for Mr. Perry.  I hope he will be calling soon.  He will be so pleased to see my little ones.”

“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence.  And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”

“Oh, my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it.  Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have been applying at times ever since August.”

“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her; and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to—­”

“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma:  “I have not heard one inquiry after them.”

“Oh, the good Bateses—­I am quite ashamed of myself; but you mention them in most of your letters.  I hope they are quite well.  Good old Mrs. Bates.  I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.  They are always so pleased to see my children.  And that excellent Miss Bates!—­such thorough worthy people!  How are they, sir?”

“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole.  But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.”

“How sorry I am! but colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn.  Mr. Wingfield told me that he had never known them more general or heavy, except when it has been quite an influenza.”