play up to her part, and she longed to stare the four women out into Harley Street.  If the energy of a gaze could have achieved that object, they must have backed through the doctor’s plate glass into the area forthwith.  They were, in fact, most obviously moved, and their attitudes expressed, by a community of lines, virtue rampant and agitation gules.  A shattering silence endured till Lawler appeared to bid two of these virgins with lit lamps of self-righteousness to the consulting-room.  As they rose the two other ladies rose also and followed in their wake.  Lawler politely protested, but they were now to proclaim their beauty of character.

“We should prefer to wait in another room,” said the lady who had coughed as a communication with heaven.

“Yes, another room,” added the other, and as she spoke she half turned, indicating the corner where Cuckoo sat.

Without a word Lawler showed them out and closed the door.  For another twenty minutes Cuckoo sat alone, glaring at the table by which these members of her sex had sat, and seeing no material objects but only—­as is the way of humanity—­her own point of view.  The ladies saw only theirs.  In this respect, at least, they closely resembled the lady of the feathers.  When Lawler at length returned with his grave:  “This way, if you please, ma’am,” Cuckoo rose to her feet with the inflexibility of some iron thing set in motion by mechanism, and marched in his wake to the doctor’s presence.

The doctor was standing up by a bright fire; he looked very grave.

“I am very sorry to have kept you,” he said, “very sorry.  I did not think you could get here so quickly.”

Cuckoo cleared her throat.

“I wish I hadn’t,” she answered bluntly.

“Why?”

“It don’t matter.  I started directly your wire came.”

“That was good of you.  Please sit down.”

Cuckoo sat with a straight back in the straightest chair she could perceive.  The doctor still remained standing by the fire.  He appeared to be thinking deeply.  His eyes looked downward at his gaily shining boots.  After a minute or two he said: 

“I speak to you now in strict confidence, trusting your secrecy implicitly.”

The back of Cuckoo became less straight.  Even a gentle curve made it more gracious if less admirable from the dancing-mistress point of view.

“Honour!” she interjected rapidly, like a schoolboy.

The doctor looked up at her and a smile came to his lips.  And as he looked up he noticed the neatness of her black gown, the simplicity of her hat, the absence of paint and powder.  Being, after all, only a man, he was surprised at Cuckoo’s appearance of propriety.  The four ladies had been surprised at her appearance of impropriety.  But the doctor, seeing her so much better than usual, thought her—­in looks—­quite well, as indeed she was in comparison with the tout ensemble of her usual days.  He looked from her black gloves, which held the thick black veil, to the winter sunshine sparkling, like a dancing, eager child, at the window.