Mr. Libby had not yet returned when she went back to the piazza, and she walked out on the road by which he must arrive.  She had not to walk far.  He drew in sight before she had gone a quarter of a mile, driving rapidly.  “Am I late?” he asked, turning, and pulling up at the roadside, with well-subdued astonishment at encountering her.

“Oh, no; not that I know.”  She mounted to the seat, and they drove off in a silence which endured for a long time.  If Libby had been as vain as he seemed light, he must have found it cruelly unflattering, for it ignored his presence and even his existence.  She broke the silence at last with a deep-drawn sigh, as frankly sad as if she had been quite alone, but she returned to consciousness of him in it.  “Mr. Libby, you must think it is very strange for me to ask you to drive me to Corbitant without troubling myself to tell you my errand.”

“Oh, not at all,” said the young man.  “I’m glad to be of use on any terms.  It is n’t often that one gets the chance.”

“I am going to see Dr. Mulbridge,” she began, and then stopped so long that he perceived she wished him to say something.

He said, “Yes?”

“Yes.  I thought this morning that I should give Mrs. Maynard’s case up to him.  I shouldn’t be at all troubled at seeming to give it up under a pressure of opinion, though I should not give it up for that.  Of course,” she explained, “you don’t know that all those women have been saying that I ought to call in Dr. Mulbridge.  It’s one of those things,” she added bitterly, “that make it so pleasant for a woman to try to help women.”  He made a little murmur of condolence, and she realized that she had thrown herself on his sympathy, when she thought she had been merely thinking aloud.  “What I mean is that he is a man of experience and reputation, and could probably be of more use to her than I, for she would trust him more.  But I have known her a long time, and I understand her temperament and her character,—­which goes for a good deal in such matters,—­and I have concluded not to give up the case.  I wish to meet Dr. Mulbridge, however, and ask him to see her in consultation with me.  That is all,” she ended rather haughtily, as if she had been dramatizing the fact to Dr. Mulbridge in her own mind.

“I should think that would be the right thing,” said Libby limply, with uncalled-for approval; but he left this dangerous ground abruptly.  “As you say, character goes for a great deal in these things.  I’ve seen Mrs. Maynard at the point of death before.  As a general rule, she does n’t die.  If you have known her a long time, you know what I mean.  She likes to share her sufferings with her friends.  I’ve seen poor old Maynard”—­

“Mr. Libby!” Grace broke in.  “You may speak of Mr. Maynard as you like, but I cannot allow your disrespectfulness to Mrs. Maynard.  It’s shocking!  You had no right to be their friend if you felt toward them as you seem to have done.”