“Oh, I’m sick of them, and their airs and affectations,” growled Mrs. Morris, who suddenly put on her thickest and most bronchial tones.  “What with their afternoon tea, and their grand at-homes, and the ridiculous way they’ve been going on about that little Matty lately, I really lose all patience with them.  What’s the consequence of all this kind of thing?  Mrs. Bell chokes up her small drawing-room so full of visitors who only come to laugh at her, that one can’t breathe comfortably there without the window open, and a fine fresh bronchitis I’ve got in consequence.  You feel me, doctor.  I’m all shivering and burning, I’m going to be very ill, there isn’t a doubt of it.”

“Your pulse hasn’t quickened,” said the doctor, “it’s as steady as my own.”

“Oh, well, if you don’t choose to believe in the sufferings of your wife, exhibited before your very eyes, go to your Bells, and comfort them.”

“Now, Jessie, don’t talk nonsense, old lady.  You know I’m the first to believe you bad if you are.  But what’s this about Beatrice Meadowsweet?  Is she really engaged to young Bertram?”

“It’s the gossip, Tom.  But maybe it isn’t the case.  I’ll call to see Mrs. Meadowsweet this morning, and find out.”

“I would if I were you.  Beatrice is a fine girl, and mustn’t throw herself away.”

“Throw herself away!  Why, it’s a splendid match for her.  A most aristocratic young man!  One of the upper ten, and no mistake.”

“That’s all you women think about.  Well, I’m off to the Bells now.”

The doctor presently reached that rather humble little dwelling where the Bell family enjoyed domestic felicity.

He was ushered in by the maid, who wore an important and mysterious face.  Mrs. Bell quickly joined him, and she looked more important and mysterious still.

“Matty isn’t well,” she said, sinking her voice to a stage whisper.  “Matty has been badly treated; she has had a blight.”

“Dear, dear!” said Doctor Morris.

He was a fat, comfortable-looking man, his hands in particular were very fat, and when he warred to show special sympathy he was fond of rubbing them.

“Dear, dear!” he repeated.  “A blight!  That’s more a phrase to apply to the potato than to a blooming young girl.”

“All the same, doctor, it’s true.  Matty has been blighted.  She had set her young affections where they were craved and sought, and, so to speak, begged for.  She gave them, not willingly, doctor, but after all the language that melting eyes, and more melting words, could employ. The word wasn’t spoken, but all else was done.  She gave her heart, doctor, not unasked, and now it’s sent back to her, and she’s blighted, that’s the only word for it.”

“I should think so,” said the doctor, who was far too professional to smile.  “A heart returned like that is always a little difficult to dispose of.  Might I ask who—­but perhaps you’d rather not tell me?”