While the doctor was making up his mind, little Miss Quincey, in her shabby back bedroom, lay waiting for him, trembling, fretting her nerves into a fever, starting at imaginary footsteps, and entertaining all kinds of dismal possibilities.  She was convinced that she was going to die, or worse still, to break down, to be a perpetual invalid.  She thought of several likely illnesses, beginning with general paralysis and ending with anemia of the brain.  It might be anemia of the brain, but she rather thought it would be general paralysis, because this would be so much the more disagreeable of the two.  Anyhow Rhoda Vivian must have thought she was pretty bad or she would not have called in a doctor.  To call in a doctor seemed to Miss Quincey next door to invoking Providence itself; it was the final desperate resort, implying catastrophe and the end of all things.  Oh, dear!  Miss Quincey wished he would come up if he was coming, and get it over.

After all he did not keep her waiting long, and it was over in five minutes.  And yet it was amazing the amount of observation, and insight, and solid concentrated thought the young man contrived to pack into those five minutes.

Well—­it seemed that it was not general paralysis this time, nor yet anemia of the brain; but he could tell her more about it in the morning.  Meanwhile she had nothing to do but to do what he told her and stay where she was till he saw her again.  And he was gone before she realized that he had been there.

Again?  So he was coming again, was he?  Miss Quincey did not know whether to be glad or sorry.  His presence had given her a rare and curiously agreeable sense of protection, but she had to think of the expense.  She had to think too of what Mrs. Moon would say to it—­of what she would say to him.

Mrs. Moon had a good deal to say to it.  She took Juliana’s illness as a personal affront, as a deliberate back-handed blow struck at the memory of Tollington Moon.  With all the base implications of her daily acts, Juliana had never attempted anything like this.

“Capers and nonsense,” she said, “Juliana has never had an illness in her life.”

She said it to Rhoda Vivian, the bold young person who had taken upon herself to bring the doctor into the house.  Mrs. Moon spoke of the doctor as if he was a disease.

Fortunately Miss Vivian was by when he endured the first terrifying encounter.  Her manner suggested that she took him under her protection, stood between him and some unfathomable hostility.

He found the Old Lady disentangling herself with immense dignity from her maze of furniture.  Mrs. Moon was a small woman shrunk with her eighty years, shrunk almost to extinction in her black woollen gown and black woollen mittens.  Her very face seemed to be vanishing under the immense shadow of her black net cap.  Spirals of thin grey hair stuck flat to her forehead; she wore other and similar spirals enclosed behind glass in an enormous brooch; it was the hair of her ancestors, that is to say of the Quinceys.  As the Old Lady looked at Cautley her little black eyes burned like pinpoints pierced in a paste-board mask.