He smiled at her wistfully.

“It’s very kind of you to take it like that,” he said.  “After all”—­frankly—­“you could not have remained with us very long without finding out our particular skeleton in the cupboard.  My wife’s state of health—­or, rather, what she believes to be her state of health—­is a great grief to me.  I’ve tried in every way to convince her that she is not really so delicate as she imagines, but I’ve failed utterly.”

Now that the ice was broken, he seemed to find relief in pouring out the pitiful little tragedy of his home life.

“She is comparatively young, you know, Miss Tennant—­only thirty-seven, and she willfully leads the life of a confirmed invalid.  It has grown upon her gradually, this absorption in her health, and now, practically speaking, Molly has no mother and I no wife.”

“Oh, Doctor Dick”—­the little nickname, that had its origin in his slum patients’ simple affection for the man who tended them, came instinctively from her lips.  It seemed, somehow, to fit itself to the big, kindly man with the sternly rugged face and eyes of a saint.  “Oh, Doctor Dick, I’m so sorry—­so very sorry!”

Perhaps something in the dainty, well-groomed air of the woman beside him helped to accentuate the neglected appearance of the room, for he looked round in an irritated kind of way, as though all at once conscious of its deficiencies.

“And this—­this, too,” he muttered.  “There’s no one at the helm. . . .  The truth is, I ought never to have let you come here.”

Sara shook her head.

“I’ve very glad I came,” she said simply.  “I think I’m going to be very happy here.”

“You’ve got grit,” he replied quietly.  “You’d make a success of your life anywhere.  I wish”—­thoughtfully—­“Molly had a little of that same quality.  Sometimes”—­a worried frown gathered on his face—­“I get afraid for Molly.  She’s such a child . . . and no mother to hold the reins.”

“Doctor Dick, would you consider it impertinent if—­if I laid my hands on the reins—­just now and then?”

He whirled round, his eyes shining with gratitude.

“Impertinent!  I should be illimitably thankful!  You can see how things are—­I am compelled to be out all my time, my wife hardly ever leaves her own rooms, and Molly and the house affairs just get along as best they can.”

“Then,” said Sara, smiling, “I shall put my finger in the pie.  I’ve—­I’ve no one to look after now, since Uncle Patrick died,” she added.  “I think, Doctor Dick, I’ve found my job.”

“It’s absurd!” he exclaimed, regarding her with unfeigned delight.  “Here you come along, prepared, no doubt, to be treated as a ‘guest,’ and the first thing I do is to shovel half my troubles on to your shoulders.  It’s absurd—­disgraceful! . . .  But it’s amazingly good!” He held out his hand, and as Sara’s slim fingers slid into his big palm, he muttered a trifle huskily:  “God bless you for it, my dear!”