[Illustration:  Annette]

“I am a physician,” he said simply, “Get the porter, will you?” Without an instant’s question or hesitation, the girl permitted him to relieve her, and turned to the front of the car.  Other women and one fussy, noisy man were coming up now.  Dr. Blake waved them aside.  “We need air most of all—­open that window, will you?” The girl was back with the porter.  “Is the compartment occupied?  Then open it.  We must put her on her back.”  The porter fumbled for his keys.  Dr. Blake gathered up the little old woman in his arms, and spoke over his shoulder to the blonde girl: 

“You will come with us?” She nodded.  Somehow, he felt that he would have picked her from the whole car to assist in this emergency.  She was like one of those born trained nurses who ask no questions, need no special directions, and are as reliable as one’s instruments.

The old woman was stirring by the time he laid her out on the sofa of the compartment.  He wet a towel in the pitcher at the washstand, wrung it out, pressed it on her forehead.  It needed no more than that to bring her round.

“Only a faint,” said Dr. Blake; “the day’s hot and she’s not accustomed to train travel, I suppose.  Is she—­does she belong to your party?”

The girl spoke for the first time in his hearing.  Even before he seized the meaning of her speech, he noted with a thrill the manner of it.  Such a physique as this should go with the high, silvery tone of a flute; so one always imagines it.  This girl spoke in the voice of a violin—­soft, deep, deliciously resonant.  In his mind flashed a picture for which he was a long time accounting—­last winter’s ballet of the New York Hippodrome.  Afterward, he found the key to that train of thought.  It, had been a ballet of light, shimmering colors, until suddenly a troop of birds in royal purple had slashed their way down the center of the stage.  They brought the same glorified thrill of contrast as this soft but strong contralto voice proceeding from that delicate blondness.

“Oh, no!” she said, “I never saw her before.  She was swaying as I came down the aisle, and I caught her.  She’s—­she’s awake.”  The old woman had stirred again.

“Get my bag from seat 12, parlor-car,” said Dr. Blake to the porter.  “Tell them outside that it is a simple fainting-spell and we shall need no assistance.”  Now his charity patient had recovered voice; she was moaning and whimpering.  The girl, obeying again Dr. Blake’s unspoken thought, took a quick step toward the door.  He understood without further word from her.

“All right,” he said; “she may want to discuss symptoms.  You’re on the way to the dining-car aren’t you?  I’ll be along in five minutes, and I’ll let you know how she is.  Tell them outside that it is nothing serious and have the porter stand by—­please.”  That last word of politeness came out on an afterthought—­he had been addressing her in the capacity of a trained nurse.  He recognized this with confusion, and he apologized by a smile which illuminated his rather heavy, dark face.  She answered with the ghost of a smile—­it moved her eyes rather than her mouth—­and the door closed.