Sir Henry rose, and put a trembling finger into his waistcoat-pocket.

“I believe I owe you—?”

“Nothing.  But if you care to put something into the box on my hall table, you will help some poor man to get away to the seaside after an operation, and find out what is the best medicine in the world.”

“And now for Mrs. Chepstow!” the Doctor murmured to himself, as the door closed behind the outraged back of an enemy.

He sat still for a minute or two, expecting to see the door open again, the form of a woman framed in the doorway.  But no one came.  He began to feel restless.  He was not accustomed to be kept waiting by his patients, although he often kept them waiting.  There was a bell close to his elbow.  He touched it, and his man-servant instantly appeared.

“Mrs. Chepstow is down for five-thirty.  It is now”—­he pulled out his watch—­“nearly ten minutes to six.  Hasn’t she come?”

“No, sir.  Two or three people have been, without appointments.”

“And you have sent them away, of course?  Quite right.  Well, I shan’t stay in any longer.”

He got up from his chair.

“And if Mrs. Chepstow should come, sir?”

“Explain to her that I waited till ten minutes to six and then—­” He paused.  The hall door-bell was ringing sharply.

“If it is Mrs. Chepstow, shall I admit her now, sir?”

The doctor hesitated, but only for a second.

“Yes,” he said.

And he sat down again by his table.

He had been almost looking forward to the arrival of his last patient of that day, but now he felt irritated at being detained.  For a moment he had believed his day’s work to be over, and in that moment the humour for work had left him.  Why had she not been up to time?  He tapped his delicate fingers impatiently on the table, and drew down his thick brows over his sparkling eyes.  But directly the door moved, his expression of serenity returned, and when a tall woman came in, he was standing up and gravely smiling.

“I’m afraid I am late.”

The door shut on Henry.

“You are twenty minutes late.”

“I’m so sorry.”

The rather dawdling tones of the voice denied the truth of the words, and the busy Doctor was conscious of a slight sensation of hostility.

“Please sit down here,” he said, “and tell me why you come to consult me.”

Mrs. Chepstow sat down in the chair he showed her.  Her movements were rather slow and careless, like the movements of a person who is quite alone and has nothing to do.  They suggested to the watching man vistas of empty hours—­how different from his own!  She settled herself in her chair, leaning back.  One of her hands rested on the handle of a parasol she carried.  The other held lightly an arm of the chair.  Her height was remarkable, and was made the more apparent by her small waist, and by the small size of her beautifully shaped head, which was poised on a long but exquisite neck.  Her whole outline announced her gentle breeding.  The most lovely woman of the people could never be shaped quite like that.  As Doctor Isaacson realised this, he felt a sudden difficulty in connecting with the woman before him her notorious career.  Surely pride must be a dweller in a body so expressive of race!