“Oh, the silly old thing began to cry, just as they all do.  Have you seen her dog?”

The answer jarred on the doctor, although he excused her in his heart on the ground of her youth and her desire to appear at ease in talking to him.

“Do you mean Meg?” he asked, scanning her face the closer.

“I don’t know what she calls him—­but he’s the ugliest little beast I ever saw.”

“Yes—­but so amusing.  I never get tired of watching him.  What is left of him is the funniest thing alive.  He’s better than he looks, though.  He and Rex have great times together.”

“I wish you would take him, then.  I told Martha this morning that he mustn’t poke his nose into my room, and he won’t.  He’s a perfect fright.”

“But the dear old woman loves him,” he protested with a tender tone in his voice, his eyes fixed on Lucy.

He had looked into the faces of too many young girls in his professional career not to know something of what lay at the bottom of their natures.  What he saw now came as a distinct surprise.

“I don’t care if she does,” she retorted; “no, I don’t,” and she knit her brow and shook her pretty head as she laughed.

While they stood talking Bart Holt, who had lingered at the threshold, his eyes searching for the fair arrival, was advancing toward the centre of the room.  Suddenly he stood still, his gaze fixed on the vision of the girl in the clinging dress, with the blossoms resting on her breast.  The curve of her back, the round of the hip; the way her moulded shoulders rose above the lace of her bodice; the bare, full arms tapering to the wrists;—­the color, the movement, the grace of it all had taken away his breath.  With only a side nod of recognition toward Jane, he walked straight to Lucy and with an “Excuse me,” elbowed the doctor out of the way in his eagerness to reach the girl’s side.  The doctor smiled at the young man’s impetuosity, bent his head to Lucy, and turned to where Jane was standing awaiting the arrival of her other guests.

The young man extended his hand.  “I’m Bart Holt,” he exclaimed; “you haven’t forgotten me, Miss Lucy, have you?  We used to play together.  Mighty glad to see you—­been expecting you for a week.”

Lucy colored slightly and arched her head in a coquettish way.  His frankness pleased her; so did the look of unfeigned admiration in his eyes.

“Why, of course I haven’t forgotten you, Mr. Holt.  It was so nice of you to come,” and she gave him the tips of her fingers—­her own eyes meanwhile, in one comprehensive glance, taking in his round head with its closely cropped curls, searching brown eyes, wavering mouth, broad shoulders, and shapely body, down to his small, well-turned feet.  The young fellow lacked the polish and well-bred grace of the doctor, just as he lacked his well-cut clothes and distinguished manners, but there was a sort of easy effrontery and familiar air about him that some of his women admirers encouraged and others shrank from.  Strange to say, this had appealed to Lucy before he had spoken a word.