“So Bubble has been diagnosing my case, has he?”

“Oh, he doesn’t talk about professional cases usually.  He said that about you because Mrs. Atkins said that being engaged didn’t seem to agree with you.  She said she was just as glad you didn’t take a fancy to her Gracie if prospective matteromony made you look like the dead march in Saul.”

“Observing woman!”

“What,” resumed Jane, “is a dead march in Saul?”

“It is a musical composition.”

Jane considered this and then dismissed it with a shrug.  “It sounded as if it was something horrid.  Mrs. Atkins thinks she’s smart.  Anyway, I didn’t tell mother.”

“Well, suppose you run now and tell her that I am here.”

“Can’t.  The door is locked.”

“Then let us have some of the music you promised.  I’ll sit here and wait.”

Strange to say, Jane’s music was not unsoothing.  She had a smooth, light touch and the little airs she played tinkled sweetly enough from the old piano.  The weary, nerve-wrung man was more than half asleep when she grew tired of playing and slipped off to bed without disturbing him.  The moments ticked themselves away on the big hall clock.  Mrs. Coombe did not come, nor did the doctor waken.

He was aroused an hour later by a voice upon the veranda.  It was Esther’s voice and in response to it he heard a deeper murmur, a man’s voice without doubt.  There was a moment or two of low-toned talk, then “Good-night,” and the girl came in alone.

She did not see him as she came slowly across to the table.  He thought she looked grave and sad, older too—­but, so dear!  With a weary gesture she began to pull off her long gloves.

“Who was it with you, Esther?” He tried hard to make the inquiry, so devouringly eager, sound carelessly casual.

She looked up with a start.

“Oh—­I didn’t see you, Doctor!  Mr. Macnair was with me.  Did you wish to see him?” She could play at the game of carelessness better than he.  “Where is mother?” she added quickly.

“In her room, I think.  Esther, are you going to marry Macnair?”

The girl slipped off her second glove, blew gently into its fingers, smoothed them and laid it with nice care upon the table beside its fellow.

“I do not know.”

He realised with a shock that he had expected an indignant denial.

“You do not love him!”

“No.  Not now.  He knows that.  And I do not expect ever to love him.  But perhaps, after a long while, if I could make him happy—­it is so terrible not to be happy,” she finished pathetically.

Callandar could have groaned aloud; the danger was so clear.  And how could he, of all men, warn her.  Yet he must try.  He came quickly across to where she stood and compelled her gaze to his.