“Jump in!  I’m in a hurry,” was his quite needless command, for she was ready to take her place the instant the car drew to a standstill, and the delay she made him was hardly appreciable.

In silence they drove to town, and at a pace which took them past everything with which they came up, from lumbering farm-wagon to motor-cars far more powerful and speedy than the Imp.  Ellen found herself well blown about by the wind they made, though there was none stirring, and wished she had been dressed for driving instead of for shopping.  But the trip, if breezy, was brief, though it did not at once land her at her destination.

Drawing up before a somewhat imposing residence, on the outskirts of the city, Burns announced:  “Can’t take you in till I’ve made this call,” and stopped his engine with a finality which seemed to indicate that he should be in no haste to start it again.

“It doesn’t matter in the least.  I shall enjoy sitting here,” his wife responded, still outwardly unruffled by his manner.  She looked in vain for his customary glance of leave-taking, and watched him stride away up the walk to the house with a sense of wonder that even his back could somehow look so aggressive.

She had not more than settled herself when a handsome roadster appeared rushing rapidly down the road from the direction of the city and came to a stop, facing her, before the house.  She recognized in the well-groomed figure which stepped out, case in hand, one of the city surgeons with whom her husband was often closely associated in his hospital work, Dr. Van Horn.  He was a decade older than Red, possessed a strikingly impressive personality, and looked, to the last detail, like a man accustomed to be deferred to.

Descending, he caught sight of Ellen, and came across to the Imp, hat in hand, and motoring-glove withdrawn.

“Ah, Mrs. Burns,—­accompanying your husband on this matchless morning?  He is a fortunate man.  You don’t mind the waiting?  My wife thinks there is nothing so unendurable,—­she has no patience with the length of my calls.”

“I’ve not had much experience, as yet,” Ellen replied, looking into the handsome, middle-aged face before her, and thinking that the smile under the close-clipped, iron-gray moustache was one which could be cynical more easily than it could be sympathetic.  “But, so far, I find the waiting, in such weather, very endurable.  I often bring a book, and then it never matters, you know.”

“Of course not.  You are familiar with Balzac’s ‘Country Doctor’?  There’s a tribute to men like your husband, who devote their lives to the humble folk.”  He glanced toward the house.  “I mustn’t keep my colleague waiting, even for the pleasure of a chat with you.  He’s not—­you’ll pardon me—­so good a waiter as yourself!”