Anthony Hope

“ The favor then, of asking me to give you my opinion as your friend, as well as my view as Mr. Saffron’s doctor.”
Beaumaroy did not rise from his knees, but turned his face towards her; the logs had blazed up, and his eyes looked curiously bright in the glare, themselves, as it were, afire.
“In my opinion a man of sensitive honor would prefer that that will should not be made, Mr. Beaumaroy,” said Mary steadily.
Beaumaroy appeared to consider. “I’m a bit posed by that point of view, Dr. Arkroyd,” he said at last, “Either the old man’s sane—compos mentis, don’t you call it?—or he isn’t. ”

“ He raised his brows and smiled at her.
“There can be undue influence without actual want of mental competence, I think.”
“I don’t know whether my influence is undue. I believe I’m the only creature alive who cares twopence for the poor old gentleman.” ”

“ Beaumaroy admitted, “he did. That’s the only thing you find wrong with him, Doctor?”
Beaumaroy was standing on the far side of the table, his finger-tips resting lightly on it. He looked across at Mary with eyes candidly inquiring.
“I’ve found nothing else so far. I suppose he’s got nothing to worry him?”
“Not really, I think. He fusses a bit about his affairs.” He smiled. “We go to London every week to fuss about his affairs; he’s always changing his investments, taking his money out of one thing and putting it in another, you know. Old people get like that sometimes, don’t they? ”