“My dear Leila, upon my honour I do not know what you mean.”

She was near to saying, “I am not yours, or dear.”  Something in the look of the attentive face and the calmness of his manner put her on guard, and she said only, “That is, I presume, because you are not a woman.”

He said, “I do not regret that, but you clearly are thinking of one thing and I of another.  It must be the rummage-sale.  I have no desire to discuss that sorrowful business, Miss Grey.  You have quite misapprehended me.  It is of Uncle Jim I want to talk—­in fact, to ask advice.”

“I did not understand,” she said, flushing a little.  His formal manner was very unpleasant, and to be called Miss Grey was ridiculous.  If he had shown anger or even annoyance it would have eased the situation.  He went on to explain himself, rather aware of her embarrassment and not altogether sorry for her mishap.

“I said I want help—­advice.  I have sent for Prof.  Askew.  Aunt Ann has telegraphed him not to come.  I wired him to disregard her message.  He has answered me that he will be here at the house, if the train is on time, about six to-day.  It is our last hope, but it is a hope.  Aunt Ann must see this gentleman—­I say she must.  Now, how can it be managed?”

Leila let fall a handful of roses into the basket and faced him.  “Take time,” he said.  “I do really need help—­how can I make Aunt Ann see this famous surgeon?  Take time,” he repeated.

Here was for Leila a rather astonishing revelation of resolute aggressive manhood—­a new John Penhallow.  Relieved to have been taken out of her angry mood, she stood still a moment while he waited on her counsel.  “There is but one way,” she said, “it is the only way.  I do not like it—­whether you will be willing to accept it, I do not know.”

“And still you advise it?”

“I do not.”

“Well, what is it?”

“At about six every afternoon, when Uncle Jim is asleep, Aunt Ann is almost certain to be in her little library-room.  Take Dr. Askew in, present him, and walk out.  She will hate it, but she is sure to be what she is always to a guest.  He will have his chance.”

“Thank you, Miss Grey.”—­How she hated that!—­“You have helped me.”  He touched his army cap in salute and left her alone.  At the garden gate he looked back—­Miss Grey was also looking back, and vexed at being thus caught bent down again and cut buds and roses with sharp nips of the scissors.

It was not in the nature or breeding of John Penhallow to like Leila’s plan for securing to the surgeon a chance to impose on a reluctant woman a clearly stated opinion which otherwise she might have the courage to disregard.  But what else could he do?  A little after six he met the carriage far down the avenue and walked slowly to the house with the younger McGregor and the surgeon.

“You are most welcome,” said John.  “Dr. McGregor has, I trust, told you of our difficulties with my aunt?”