Dr. Cheron was standing with his feet firmly planted in the tiger-skin rug and his back to the fireplace.  I was busy writing at the study table, and glancing anxiously from time to time at the skeleton clock upon the chimney-piece; for it was getting on fast towards five, and at half-past six I was to take Josephine to the Opera Comique.  As perverse fortune would have it, the Doctor had this afternoon given me more desk-work than usual, and I began to doubt whether I should be able to dine, dress, and reach the theatre in time if he detained me much longer.

“But you need be in no haste,” he added, looking at his watch.  “That is to say, upon my account.”

I bowed nervously—­I was always nervous in his presence—­and tried to write faster than ever; but, feeling his cold blue eye upon me, made a blot, smeared it with my sleeve, left one word out, wrote another twice over, and was continually tripped up by my pen, which sputtered hideously and covered the page with florid passages in little round spots, which only needed tails to become crotchets and quavers.  At length, just as the clock struck the hour, I finished my task and laid aside my pen.

Dr. Cheron coughed preparatorily.

“It is some time,” said he, “since you have given me any news of your father.  Do you often hear from him?”

“Not very often, sir,” I replied.  “About once in every three weeks.  He dislikes letter-writing.”

Dr. Cheron took a packet of papers from his breast-pocket, and ruffling them over, said, somewhat indifferently:—­

“Very true—­very true.  His notes are brief and few; but always to the purpose.  I heard from him this morning.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Yes—­here is his letter.  It encloses a remittance of seventy-five pounds; fifty of which are for you.  The remaining twenty-five being reserved for the defrayal of your expenses at the Ecole de Medecine and the Ecole Pratique.”

I was delighted.

“Both are made payable through my banker,” continued Dr. Cheron, “and I am to take charge of your share till you require it; which cannot be just yet, as I understand from this letter that your father supplied you with the sum of one hundred and five pounds on leaving England.”

My delight went down to zero.

“Does my father say that I am not to have it now, sir?” I asked, hesitatingly.

“He says, as I have already told you, that it is to be yours when you require it.”

“And if I require it very shortly, sir—­in fact, if I require it now?”

“You ought not to require it now,” replied the Doctor, with a cold, scrutinizing stare.  “You ought not to have spent one hundred and five pounds in five months.”

I looked down in silence.  I had more than spent it long since; and I had to thank Madame de Marignan for the facility with which it had flown.  It was not to be denied that my course of lessons in practical politeness had been somewhat expensive.