“Oh, yes!” exulted the child.  “Doctor’s making me have new skin.  He gets me more new skin every day.  I didn’t have any at all.  It was all burned off.”

“That’s very good of him,” murmured the stranger.

“He’s awful good,” said the child, “when he isn’t cross.  He isn’t ever cross to me, Doctor isn’t.”

There was a general murmur of amusement in the room, and another child, not far away, laughed aloud.  The stranger furtively scrutinized the other patients one by one, lifting apparently casual glances from behind his magazine.  Several, presumably the owners of the vehicles outside, were of the typical village type, but there were others more sophisticated, and several who were palpably persons of wealth.  One late comer was admitted who left a luxuriously appointed motor across the street, and brought in with her an atmosphere of costly furs and violets and fresh air.

“Certainly a mixed crowd,” said the stranger to himself behind his magazine; “but not so different, after all, from most doctors’ waiting-room crowds.  I might send in a card, but, if I remember Red, it wouldn’t get me anything—­and this is rather interesting anyhow.  I’ll wait.”

He waited, for he wished the waiting room to be clear when he should approach that busy consulting room beyond.  Meanwhile, people came and went.  The door into the inner room would swing open, a patient would emerge, a curt but pleasant “Good-bye” in a deep voice following him or her out, and the fair-haired nurse, who sat at a desk near the door or came out of the consulting room with the patient, would summon the next.  The lady of the furs and violets sent in her card, but, as the stranger had anticipated in his own case, it procured her no more than an assurance from the nurse that Doctor Burns would see her in due course.  Since he wanted the coast clear the stranger, when at last his turn arrived, politely waived his rights, sent the furs and violets in before him, and sat alone with the nurse in the cleared waiting room.

A comparatively short period of time elapsed before the consulting-room door opened once more.  But it closed again—­almost—­and a few words reached the outer room.

“Oh, but you’re hard—­hard, Doctor Burns!  I simply can’t do it,” said a plaintive voice.

“Then don’t expect me to accomplish anything.  It’s up to you—­absolutely,” replied a brusque voice, which then softened slightly as it added:  “Cheer up.  You can, you know.  Good-bye.”

The patient came out, her lips set, her eyes lowered, and left the office as if she wanted nothing so much as to get away.  The nurse rose and began to say that Doctor Burns would now see his one remaining caller, but at that moment Doctor Burns himself appeared in the doorway, glanced at the stranger, who had risen, smiling—­and the need for an intermediary between physician and patient vanished before the onslaught of the physician himself.