Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon to whom Moore's case had been committed, pronounced his wound of a dangerous, but, he trusted, not of a hopeless character. At first he wished to place with him a nurse of his own selection; but this neither Mrs. Yorke nor Hortense would hear of. They promised faithful observance of directions. He was left, therefore, for the present in their hands.
Doubtless they executed the trust to the best of their ability; but something got wrong. The bandages were displaced or tampered with; great loss of blood followed. MacTurk, being summoned, came with steed afoam. He was one of those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex--abrupt in his best moods, in his worst savage. On seeing Moore's state he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language, with which it is not necessary to strew the present page. A bouquet or two of the choicest blossoms fell on the unperturbed head of one Mr. Graves, a stony young assistant he usually carried about with him; with a second nosegay he gifted another young gentleman in his train--an interesting fac-simile of himself, being indeed his own son; but the full _corbeille_ of blushing bloom fell to the lot of meddling womankind, _en masse_.

Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon, pronounced his wound to be dangerous, but not hopeless. Mrs. Yorke and Hortense promised to observe his directions faithfully, so Moore was left in their hands.
Doubtless they nursed him to the best of their ability; but something went wrong. The bandages were displaced; great loss of blood followed. MacTurk, being summoned, came in haste. He was one of those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex - abrupt in his best moods, in his worst savage. On seeing Moore's state he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language about meddling womankind.
