“There is nothing remarkable about it,”—­said Santoris, I when questioned as to its origin—­“It is simply real wine,—­though you may say that of itself is remarkable, there being none in the market.  It is the pure juice of the grape, prepared in such a manner as to nourish the blood without inflaming it.  It can do you no harm,—­in fact, for you, Harland, it is an excellent thing.”

“Why for me in particular?” queried Harland, rather sharply.

“Because you need it,”—­answered Santoris—­“My dear fellow, you are not in the best of health.  And you will never get better under your present treatment.”

I looked up eagerly.

“That is what I, too, have thought,”—­I said—­“only I dared not express it!”

Mr. Harland surveyed me with an amused smile.

“Dared not!  I know nothing you would not dare!—­but with all your boldness, you are full of mere theories,—­and theories never made an ill man well yet.”

Santoris exchanged a swift glance with me.  Then he spoke:—­

“Theory without practice is, of course, useless,”—­he said—­“But surely you can see that this lady has reached a certain plane of thought on which she herself dwells in health and content?  And can she not serve you as an object lesson?”

“Not at all,”—­replied Mr. Harland, almost testily—­“She is a woman whose life has been immersed in study and contemplation, and because she has allowed herself to forego many of the world’s pleasures she can be made happy by a mere nothing—­a handful of roses—­or the sound of sweet music—­”

“Are they ’nothings’?”—­interrupted Santoris.

“To business men they are—­”

“And business itself?  Is it not also from some points of view a ’nothing’?”

“Santoris, if you are going to be ‘transcendental’ I will have none of you!” said Mr. Harland, with a vexed laugh—­“What I wish to say is merely this—­that my little friend here, for whom I have a great esteem, let me assure her!—­is not really capable of forming an opinion of the condition of a man like myself, nor can she judge of the treatment likely to benefit me.  She does not even know the nature of my illness—­but I can see that she has taken a dislike to my physician, Brayle—­”

“I never ‘take dislikes,’ Mr. Harland,”—­I interrupted, quickly—­“I merely trust to a guiding instinct which tells me when a man is sincere or when he is acting a part.  That’s all.”

“Well, you’ve decided that Brayle is not sincere,”—­he replied—­“And you hardly think him clever.  But if you would consider the point logically—­you might enquire what motive could he possibly have for playing the humbug with me?”

Santoris smiled.

“Oh, man of ‘business’!  You can ask that?”

We were at the end of luncheon,—­the servants had retired, and Mr. Harland was sipping his coffee and smoking a cigar.

“You can ask that?” he repeated—­“You, a millionaire, with one daughter who is your sole heiress, can ask what motive a man like Brayle,—­worldly, calculating and without heart—­has in keeping you both—­both, I say—­you and your daughter equally—­in his medical clutches?”