“It will worret you to death, Lucy; that I can see,” said Mr. Vincy, more mildly.  “However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter.”  (What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow have been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about his—­ the Mayor’s—­family.) “I’m the last man to give in to the cry about new doctors, or new parsons either—­whether they’re Bulstrode’s men or not.  But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will.”

Wrench did not take it at all well.  Lydgate was as polite as he could be in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he happens to have been an object of dislike beforehand.  Country practitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point of honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable among them.  He did not refuse to meet Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was somewhat tried on the occasion.  He had to hear Mrs. Vincy say—­

“Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that you should use me so?—­ To go away, and never to come again!  And my boy might have been stretched a corpse!”

Mr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection, and was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let him know what he thought.

“I’ll tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a joke,” said the Mayor, who of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and how broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes.—­ “To let fever get unawares into a house like this.  There are some things that ought to be actionable, and are not so—­ that’s my opinion.”

But irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being instructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, inwardly considered him in need of instruction, for “in point of fact,” Mr. Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions, which would not wear.  He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the case.  The house might be a good one, but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody on a professional matter.  He reflected, with much probability on his side, that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, and that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his professional brethren, would by-and-by recoil on himself.  He threw out biting remarks on Lydgate’s tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get himself a factitious reputation with credulous people.  That cant about cures was never got up by sound practitioners.

This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could desire.  To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but perilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the weather-prophet.  He was impatient of the foolish expectations amidst which all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself as much as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional openness.