On the other side of the door, dressed in frock coat and silk hat, there stood hesitating a tall, thin, weary man who had been afoot for exactly twenty hours, in pursuit of his usual business of curing imaginary ailments by means of medicine and suggestion, and leaving real ailments to nature aided by coloured water.  His attitude towards the medical profession was somewhat sardonic, partly because he was convinced that only the gluttony of South Kensington provided him with a livelihood, but more because his wife and two fully-developed daughters spent too much on their frocks.  For years, losing sight of the fact that he was an immortal soul, they had been treating him as a breakfast-in-the-slot machine:  they put a breakfast in the slot, pushed a button of his waistcoat, and drew out banknotes.  For this, he had neither partner, nor assistant, nor carriage, nor holiday:  his wife and daughters could not afford him these luxuries.  He was able, conscientious, chronically tired, bald and fifty.  He was also, strange as it may seem, shy; though indeed he had grown used to it, as a man gets used to a hollow tooth or an eel to skinning.  No qualities of the young girl’s heart about the heart of Dr. Cashmore!  He really did know human nature, and he never dreamt of anything more paradisaical than a Sunday Pullman escapade to Brighton.

Priam Farll opened the door which divided these two hesitating men, and they saw each other by the light of the gas lamp (for the hall was in darkness).

“This Mr. Farll’s?” asked Dr. Cashmore, with the unintentional asperity of shyness.

As for Priam, the revelation of his name by Leek shocked him almost into a sweat.  Surely the number of the house should have sufficed.

“Yes,” he admitted, half shy and half vexed.  “Are you the doctor?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Cashmore stepped into the obscurity of the hall.

“How’s the invalid going on?”

“I can scarcely tell you,” said Priam.  “He’s in bed, very quiet.”

“That’s right,” said the doctor.  “When he came to my surgery this morning I advised him to go to bed.”

Then followed a brief awkward pause, during which Priam Farll coughed and the doctor rubbed his hands and hummed a fragment of melody.

“By Jove!” the thought flashed through the mind of Farll.  “This chap’s shy, I do believe!”

And through the mind of the doctor, “Here’s another of ’em, all nerves!”

They both instantly, from sheer good-natured condescension the one to the other, became at ease.  It was as if a spring had been loosed.  Priam shut the door and shut out the ray of the street lamp.

“I’m afraid there’s no light here,” said he.

“I’ll strike a match,” said the doctor.

“Thanks very much,” said Priam.

The flare of a wax vesta illumined the splendours of the puce dressing-gown.  But Dr. Cashmore did not blench.  He could flatter himself that in the matter of dressing-gowns he had nothing to learn.