At one o’clock she lunched with Margaret, hardly opening her lips through it all.  She did not mention her husband’s note—­that she would reserve for the doctor.  Between them she felt sure there could be arranged a way out of the situation.  Again she devoured his note.  Yes—­“at five.”  The intervening hours seemed interminable.

That these same hours were anything but irksome to Sperry would have been apparent to anyone who watched his use of them.  The day, like other days during office hours, had seen a line of coupes waiting outside his door.  Within had assembled a score of rich patients waiting their turn while they read the illustrated papers in strained silence—­papers they had already seen.  There was, of course, no conversation.  A nervous cough now and then from some pretty widow, overheated in her sables, would break the awkward silence, or perhaps the voice of some wealthy little girl of five asking impossible explanations of her maid.  During these hours the mere opening of the doctor’s sanctum door was sufficient to instantly raise the hopes and the eyes of the unfortunates.

For during these office hours Dr. Sperry had a habit of opening the door of this private sanctum sharply, and standing there for an instant, erect and faultlessly dressed, looking over the waiting ones; then, with a friendly nod, he would recognize, perhaps the widow—­and the door closed again on the less fortunate.

It was, of course, more than possible that the young woman was ill over her dressmaker’s bill, rather than suffering from a weak heart or an opera cold.  Sperry’s ear, however, generally detected the cold.  It was not his policy to say unpleasant things—­especially to young widows who had recently inherited the goods and chattels of their hard-working husbands.

“Ill!—­nonsense, my dear lady; you look as fresh as a rose,” he would begin in his fascinating voice—­“a slight cold, but nothing serious, I assure you.  You women are never blessed with prudence,” etc., etc.

To another:  “Nervous prostration, my dear madame!  Fudge—­all imagination!  Silly, really silly.  You caught cold, of course, coming out of the heated theatre.  Get a good rest, my dear Mrs. Jack—­I want you to stay at least a month at Palm Beach, and no late suppers, and no champagne.  No—­not a drop,” he adds severely.  Then softening, “Well, then, half a glass.  There, I’ve been generous, haven’t I?” etc., etc., and so the day passed.

On this particular day it was four o’clock before he had dismissed the last of his patients.  Then he turned to his nurse with an impatient tone, as he searched hurriedly among the papers on his desk: 

“Find out what day I set for young Mrs. Van Ripley’s operation.”

“Tuesday, sir,” answered the nurse.

“Then make it Thursday, and tell James to pack up my big valise and see that my golf things are in it and aboard the 9.18 in the morning.”