Dr. Little descended the stairs of Major Murray’s house with the alert and rather furtive look of a man who has been for days subjected to the semi-sceptical questions of interested relatives. Parker Steel had attended at the introduction of a third Miss Murray into the world; the whole affair had seemed but the ordinary yearly incident in the great, rambling, florid-faced house, whose windows appeared to have copied its owner’s military stare. It was during Dr. Little’s regency that Major Murray’s wife had developed certain sinister symptoms that had worried the locum-tenens very seriously. Concern for his own self-conceit rather than concern for the patient, characterized Dr. Little’s attitude towards the case. The professional spirit when cultivated to the uttermost end of complexity, becomes an impersonation of the intellectual ego.

A thin, acute-faced woman with sandy hair appeared at the dining-room door as Dr. Little reached the hall. This lady with the sandy hair and freckles happened to be the most inquisitive, suspicious, and unrebuffable of sisters that Dr. Little had ever encountered on guard over her brother’s domestic happiness.

“Good-morning.”

“Damn the woman—Ah, good-morning.”

Miss Murray’s attitude betrayed the inevitable catechisation. Dr. Little followed her into the dining-room.

“And how do you find my sister-in-law this morning. Dr. Little?”

Miss Murray had an aggressive, expeditious manner that disorganized any ordinary mortal’s sense of self-sufficiency and vain repose. In action her hair seemed to become sandier in color, her freckles more yellow and independent. In speech she reminded the locum-tenens of a quick-firing gun whose exasperating detonations numbered so many snaps a minute.

“Mrs. Murray is no worse this morning. In fact—I can—”

“The temperature?”

“The temperature is a little above normal.”

Dr. Little’s “distinguished air” became ten times more distinguished. He articulated in his throat, and began to pull on his gloves with gestures of great finality.

“Did you notice that reddish rash?”

“It is our duty, Miss Murray, to notice such things.”

“And the throat? It seems very red and angry—”

“A certain degree of pharyngitis is present.”

“Well, and what’s the meaning of it all, Dr. Little?”

“Meaning, Miss Murray? Really—”

“There’s a cause for everything, I imagine.”

“Certainly. The problem—”

“You admit then that there is something problematic in the case, Dr. Little.”

“There is a problem in every—”

“Of course. But in my sister-in-law’s case, that is the matter under discussion.”

“Pardon me, madam, it is impossible to discuss certain—”

“My brother desires something definite. He was obliged to go to town to-day.”

“I should prefer to give my opinion—”

“Major Murray left instructions that I should wire to his club—”

“His club?”

“Whether any definite conclusion had been arrived at.”

The two disputants had been volleying and counter-volleying at point-blank range. Neither displayed any sign of giving ground or of surrender. The Scotch lady’s voice had harshened into a slight rasp of natural Gaelic. Dr. Little still fumbled at the buttons of his gloves, his words very much in his throat, his whole pose characteristic of the profession upon its dignity.

“It is quite impossible, Miss Murray, for me to discuss this case.”

The thin lady’s pupils were no bigger than pin-heads, so that her eyes looked like two circles of hard, blue glass.

“Very well, Dr. Little. I must telegraph to my brother that no conclusion has been reached—”

“Pardon me, that would be indiscreet—”

“To provide—me—with a solution!”

The distinguished gentleman had completed the buttoning of his gloves.

“I shall hope to see Major Murray in person to-morrow.”

“You shall see him, Dr. Little, without fail.”

The locum-tenens conducted a dignified retreat, fully aware of the fact that the sandy-haired lady believed him to be an ignoramus.

“Confound the woman! How can I tell her what I think?” he reflected. “It seems to me that there is half a ton of domestic dynamite waiting to be exploded in that house. I hardly relish the responsibility. If matters don’t clear in a day or two, I shall wire for Steel. It is his case, not mine.”

To a much-hustled man, whose temper had been chastened by a series of irritating incidents, the picture of a pretty woman smiling up at him from a neat luncheon-table revivified the more sensuous satisfactions of existence. Men who live to eat, smoke, and enjoy the curves of a woman’s figure are in the main very docile mortals. The savor of a well-cooked entrée will dispel despair and bring down heaven.

Dr. Little sat down with a grieved sigh, unfolded his napkin, and accepted Miss Ellison’s sympathy as though it were his just and sovereign due. He still had a vision of freckles and sandy hair, and echoes of an aggressive voice that revived memories of the dame school he had attended when in frocks.

“What a morning you must have had! It is nearly two.”

“A delightful morning, I can assure you. Excuse me, Miss Ellison, the cover of that magazine you have been reading reminds me of a certain female’s hair. Would you mind removing it from sight?”

“Is the memory so poignant?”

“Poignant! And she has freckles the size of pease. Ugh! I wonder why it is that one’s patients always seem to conspire against one by being mulish and irritating all on the same day?”

“Something in the air, perhaps. Poor man!”

“Poor man, it is, I assure you, when you have had a series of cantankerous old ladies to blarney. I wonder if I might have a glass of sherry? Oh, don’t bother, let me get it.”

As though the mere offer absolved him from all further effort, Dr. Little sat still and fed while Madge Ellison rummaged in the sideboard for the decanter.

“How much, a tumblerful?............