"He can't live far from here, I should think. He seems harmless enough. I must come along and see that wing again to-morrow." He slid off the hall table and stood up.
"Those old wives' tales still have their hold on you," he said, patting the Vicar on the shoulder. "But an angel, you know—ha, ha!"
"I certainly did think …" said the Vicar dubiously.
"Weigh the evidence," said the Doctor, still fumbling at his watch. "Weigh the evidence with our instruments of precision. What does it leave you? Splashes of colour, spots of fancy-muscœ volantes."
"And yet," said the Vicar, "I could almost swear to the glory on his wings. …"
"Think it over," said the Doctor (watch out); "hot afternoon—brilliant sunshine—boiling down on your head. … But really I must be going. It is a quarter to five. I'll see your—angel (ha, ha!) to-morrow again, if no one has been to fetch him in the meanwhile. Your bandaging was really very good. I flatter myself on that score. Our ambulance classes were a success you see. … Good afternoon."
