’This room is not got up like Mr. Ruthyn’s:  does he talk of furnishings and making things a little smart?  No!  Well, I must say, I think he might.’

Here there was a little silence, and Doctor Bryerly, with his accustomed simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, very distinctly—­

’Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean about getting your uncle to forego his guardianship?  I would not mind his first refusal.  You could make it worth his while, unless he—­that is—­unless he’s very unreasonable indeed; and I think you would consult your interest, Miss Ruthyn, by doing so and, if possible, getting out of this place.’

’But I have not thought of it at all; I am much happier here than I had at all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Milly.’

‘How long have you been here exactly?’

I told him.  It was some two or three months.

‘Have you seen your other cousin yet—­the young gentleman?’

‘No.’

‘H’m!  Aren’t you very lonely?’ he enquired.

‘We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for.’

Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.

’Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot.  You’d be pleasanter somewhere else—­with Lady Knollys, for instance, eh?’

’Well, there certainly.  But I am very well here:  really the time passes very pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind.  I have only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied:  he is always impressing that on me.’

‘Yes, it is not a fit place for you,’ said Doctor Bryerly.  ’Of course, about your uncle,’ he resumed, observing my surprised look, ’it is all right:  but he’s quite helpless, you know.  At all events, think about it.  Here’s my address—­Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London—­don’t lose it, mind,’ and he tore the leaf out of his note-book.

‘Here’s my fly at the door, and you must—­you must’ (he was looking at his watch)—­’mind you must think of it seriously; and so, you see, don’t let anyone see that.  You’ll be sure to leave it throwing about.  The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and don’t put my name—­you’ll remember that—­only the rest of the address; and burn this.  Quince is with you?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say.

’Well, don’t let her go; it’s a bad sign if they wish it.  Don’t consent, mind; but just tip me a hint and you’ll have me down.  And any letters you get from Lady Knollys, you know, for she’s very plain-spoken, you’d better burn them off-hand.  And I’ve stayed too long, though; mind what I say, scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it.  Good-bye; oh, I was taking away your book.’