To say that George Featherston, Doctor-in-ordinary at Buttermead, felt
as if he were standing on his head instead of his heels, would not in
the least express his mental condition as he stood in his surgery that
September afternoon and read a letter, just delivered, from his sister,
Madame Carimon.
"Wants me to go to Sainteville to see Ann Preen; thinks she will die
if I refuse, for the French doctors can do nothing for her!" commented
Featherston, staring at the letter in intense perplexity, and then
looking off it to stare at me.
I wonder whether anything in this world happens by chance? In the days
and years that have gone by since, I sometimes ask myself whether
_that_ did: that I should be at that particular moment in Featherston's
surgery. Squire Todhetley was staying with Sir John Whitney
for partridge shooting. He had taken me with him, Tod being in
Gloucestershire; and on this Friday afternoon I had run in to say
"How-d'ye-do" to Featherston.
"_Sainteville!_" repeated he, quite unable to collect his senses. "Why,
I must cross the water to get _there_!"