And especially to the Admiral and the Doctor were this closer intimacy and companionship of value.  Each had a void in his life, as every man must have who with unexhausted strength steps out of the great race, but each by his society might help to fill up that of his neighbor.  It is true that they had not much in common, but that is sometimes an aid rather than a bar to friendship.  Each had been an enthusiast in his profession, and had retained all his interest in it.  The Doctor still read from cover to cover his Lancet and his Medical Journal, attended all professional gatherings, worked himself into an alternate state of exaltation and depression over the results of the election of officers, and reserved for himself a den of his own, in which before rows of little round bottles full of glycerine, Canadian balsam, and staining agents, he still cut sections with a microtome, and peeped through his long, brass, old-fashioned microscope at the arcana of nature.  With his typical face, clean shaven on lip and chin, with a firm mouth, a strong jaw, a steady eye, and two little white fluffs of whiskers, he could never be taken for anything but what he was, a high-class British medical consultant of the age of fifty, or perhaps just a year or two older.

The Doctor, in his hey-day, had been cool over great things, but now, in his retirement, he was fussy over trifles.  The man who had operated without the quiver of a finger, when not only his patient’s life but his own reputation and future were at stake, was now shaken to the soul by a mislaid book or a careless maid.  He remarked it himself, and knew the reason.  “When Mary was alive,” he would say, “she stood between me and the little troubles.  I could brace myself for the big ones.  My girls are as good as girls can be, but who can know a man as his wife knows him?” Then his memory would conjure up a tuft of brown hair and a single white, thin hand over a coverlet, and he would feel, as we have all felt, that if we do not live and know each other after death, then indeed we are tricked and betrayed by all the highest hopes and subtlest intuitions of our nature.

The Doctor had his compensations to make up for his loss.  The great scales of Fate had been held on a level for him; for where in all great London could one find two sweeter girls, more loving, more intelligent, and more sympathetic than Clara and Ida Walker?  So bright were they, so quick, so interested in all which interested him, that if it were possible for a man to be compensated for the loss of a good wife then Balthazar Walker might claim to be so.

Clara was tall and thin and supple, with a graceful, womanly figure.  There was something stately and distinguished in her carriage, “queenly” her friends called her, while her critics described her as reserved and distant.