If Dr. Van Anden desired to reply to this insulting harangue, there was no opportunity, for at this moment they whirled around the corner and were at home.

Sadie flung aside her hat with an angry vehemence, and, seating herself at the piano, literally stormed the keys, while the Doctor re-entered his carriage and quietly proceeded to his evening round of calls.

What a whirlwind of rage there was in Sadie’s heart!  What earthly right had this man whom she detested to give her advice?  Was she a child, to be commanded by any one?  What right had any one to speak in that way of Dr. Douglass?  He was a gentleman, certainly, much more of a one than Dr. Van Anden had shown himself to be—­and she liked him; yes, and she would like him, in spite of a whole legion of envious doctors.

A light step crossed the hall and entered the parlor.  Sadie merely raised her eyes long enough to be certain that Dr. Douglass stood beside her, and continued her playing.  He leaned over the piano and listened.

“Had you a pleasant ride?” he asked, as the tone of the music lulled a little.

“Charming.”  Sadie’s voice was full of emphasis and sarcasm.

“I judged, by the style of music which you were playing, that there must have been a hurricane.”

“Nothing of the sort; only a little paternal advice.”

“Indeed!  Have you been taken into his kindly care?  I congratulate you.”

Sadie was still very angry, or she would never have been guilty of the shocking impropriety of her next remark.  But it is a lamentable fact that people will say and do very strange things when they are angry—­things of which they have occasion to repent in cooler moments.

Fixing her bright eyes full and searchingly on Dr. Douglass, she said abruptly: 

“He was warning me against the impropriety of associating with your dangerous self.”

A look as of sadness and deep pain crossed Dr. Douglass’ face, and he thought aloud, rather than said:  “Is that man determined I shall have no friends?”

Sadie was touched; she struck soft, sweet chords with a slow and gentle movement as she asked: 

“What is your offense in his eyes, Dr. Douglass?”

Then, indeed, Dr. Douglass seemed embarrassed; maintaining, though, a sort of hesitating dignity as he attempted a reply.

“Why—­I—­he—­I would rather not tell you, Miss Ried, it sounds badly.”  Then, with a little, slightly mournful laugh—­“And that half admission sounds badly, too; worse than the simple truth, perhaps.  Well, then, I had the misfortune to cross his path professionally, once; a little matter, a slight mistake, not worth repeating—­neither would I repeat it if it were, in honor to him.  He is a man of skill and since then has risen high; one would not suppose that he would give that little incident of the past a thought now; but he seems never to have forgiven me.”