At this point she reached the high-road, and heard the wheels of a dog-cart behind her.  She recognized the quick, hard trot of the doctor’s cob, and paused at the side of the road to let him pass.  But the doctor’s eyes behind their glasses were keen as a hawk’s.  He recognized her, the deepening dusk notwithstanding, while he was still some yards from her, and pulled in his horse to a walk.

“Jump up!” he said.  “I’m going your way.”

He reached down a hand to her, and Avery mounted beside him.  “How lucky for me!” she said.

“Tired, eh?” he questioned.

She laughed a little.  “Oh no, not really.  But it’s nice to get a lift.  Were you coming to see Jeanie?”

“Yes,” said Tudor briefly.

She glanced at him, caught by something in his tone.  “Dr. Tudor,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “are you—­altogether—­satisfied about her?”

Tudor was looking at his horse’s ears; for some reason he was holding the animal in to a walk.  “I am quite satisfied with regard to the fracture,” he said.  “She will soon be on her legs again.”

His words were deliberately wary.  Avery felt a little tremor of apprehension go through her.

“I’m afraid you don’t consider her very strong,” she said uneasily.

He did not at once reply.  She had a feeling that he was debating within himself as to the advisability of replying at all.  And then quite suddenly he turned his head and spoke.  “Mrs. Denys, you are accustomed to hearing other people’s burdens, so I may as well tell you the truth.  I can’t say—­because I don’t know—­if there is anything radically wrong with that little girl; but she has no stamina whatever.  If she had to contend with anything serious, things would go very badly with her.  In any case—­” he paused.

“Yes?” said Avery.

Tudor had become wary again.  “Perhaps I have said enough,” he said.

“I don’t know why you should hesitate to speak quite openly,” she rejoined steadily.  “As you say, I am a bearer of burdens.  And I don’t think I am easily frightened.”

“I am sure you are not,” he said.  “If I may be allowed to say so, I think you are essentially a woman to be relied on.  If I did not think so, I certainly should not have spoken as I have done.”

“Then will you tell me what it is that you fear for her?” Avery said.

He was looking straight at her through the gloom, but she could not see his eyes behind their glasses.  “Well,” he said somewhat brusquely at length, “to be quite honest, I fear—­mind you, I only fear—­some trouble, possibly merely some delicacy, of the lungs.  Without a careful examination I cannot speak definitely.  But I think there is little room for doubt that the tendency is there.”

“I see,” Avery said.  She was silent a moment; then, “You have not considered it advisable to say this to her father?” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “Would it make any difference?”