“Well, that’s all right,” interrupted the Doctor, “but for a woman like yourself, that sets out to be fond of her children, its surprising that you didn’t make a match yet for your son!” He looked at her with indulgent fondness, laughing at her, and she gazed back at him with her heart in her eyes, and thought him the king of men.  “Well, what have you got to say to that, Mrs. Mangan?  It’s well for the poor boy that his father isn’t so neglectful of him!”

“What do you mean, Francis?  What are you talking of?”

“I’m talking of poor Barty, my dear!” said the Doctor, enjoying himself intensely, and watching his wife’s handsome face with eyes that lost no shade of its quick-changing expression.  “You’ve a high opingen of him, I know!  Would you think Miss Christian Talbot-Lowry was good enough for him?”

Mrs. Mangan’s mouth opened, in sheer stupefaction.  She opened and shut it two or three times before speech came to her.

“Barty!” she panted; “Miss Christian Lowry!  Sweet and Blessed Mother of God!  Francis, you’re raving!  Is it my poor Barty!  They’d never look at him!”

The Doctor watched her with triumph in his face.  “Don’t be too sure of that!  I might have an argument up my sleeve—­” he checked himself as a nervous knock was heard at the door.  “Who’s there?  Come in!  Come in, can’t ye?”

A telegram, the orange envelope dark with wet, was handed to him.  He read it.

“No answer,” he said, getting up quickly.  “Well, bad manners to the woman!  Such a day to choose!”

“What is it, lovey? Don’t tell me it’s a sick call!  You couldn’t possibly go annywhere this evening!” cried Mrs. Mangan, italicising, in her indignation, every second word, “and for goodness’ sake, go on and tell me what was the argument you said you had?”

“My dear, I couldn’t go into it properly now.  I’ll tell you another time.  I’m bound to go, and as quick as I can too!  Run now, like a good girl, and tell Barty or Mike to get the car ready in a hurry.  That wire was from Hannigan that lives below Riverstown.  He says his wife’ll die—­she’s very bad, I’m afraid—­I’m booked for the job this long time—­”

Mrs. Mangan, loudly expostulating, though wise in obedience from experience, flew from the room with her message, and speedily returned to find the Big Doctor still hurrying about the surgery, making his preparations, and talking as he went.

“I mightn’t be back till morning, but I’ll not miss the wedding, don’t be afraid!  I’ll come as soon as I can, I promise you that!”

“Oh, Francis, love, I hate to see you go out this awful night,” wailed Mrs. Mangan, following him into the little hall, and dragging his fur-lined coat off a peg, and holding it for him; “and this scorf, my darling, put it on you before you ketch your death.  Will you take Mike with you?”

“I will not.  He’ll be wanting here.  Don’t delay me now.  Good-bye, girlie!” He kissed her.  Then he opened the door, and with a roar, the wind and the rain hurled in, with a force that staggered him, big as he was.