Part 22 (1/2)
She threw off her opera-cloak and wrap and slipped into the chair beside her father. Then after one brief glance into his face she inquired--
”Well, old boy, what's the trouble?”
”Pip wants me to go for a holiday,” said her father.
”Carried unanimously!” announced Pipette. ”When shall we start?”
”Can't be done at present. Too busy.”
”Get somebody from the hospital staff to do your work.”
”Hear, hear!” said Pip.
Dr. Wilmot gazed into the fire. Presently he said,--
”It's not altogether professional work. Pip, you said just now that you were a blamed fool. Your father is another.”
”Let us hear all about it,” said Pipette maternally.
”Well, I am a prosperous man as professional men go. But a few years ago I realised a good many of my investments--”
”What does that mean?”
”I sacrificed my savings to get ready money, to finance that private cancer-research commission that Sir John Lindon and I got up,--you remember, Pip?”
”Yes; go on.”
”Well, the Government ultimately paid the expenses of the commission,--we shamed them into it,--and I got my money back. When I came to reinvest it, instead of putting it into the old safe place, I devoted most of it to buying shares in a wild-cat Australian scheme--”
”Which has gone bust?” said Pip.
”Not quite. But the shares are down to the bottom mark, and there is no dividend. I believe the thing is sound, and that in a year or two we shall be all right again. Meanwhile--meanwhile, children, I am extremely hard up!”
To people who have never been hungrier than an unpunctual cook can make them, the prospect of actual poverty is always rather sobering. There was a long pause. Presently Pipette slipped a soft and protecting arm round her father's neck.
”Dad,” she asked, ”why did you buy those queer shares?”
”To get rich quick.”
”Why quick?”
”Because”--the doctor hesitated, surveyed his son and daughter rather doubtfully, and finally proceeded--”because human life in general is an uncertain thing, old lady, and my life in particular happens to be--don't choke me, child!”
Pipette's encircling arm had grown suddenly rigid, and her father heard her heart flutter.
”Wh--what do you mean, Daddy?”
”I mean that I possess what insurance companies call 'a bad life.'
Nothing serious--slight heart trouble, that's all. I shall have to be careful for a bit, and all will be well. It's the cracked pitcher that lasts longest.” Dr. Wilmot had unconsciously dropped into the easy and optimistic tones which he reserved for nervous patients.
After a little further conversation Pip and Pipette, somewhat rea.s.sured, retired to bed.