“You must have the fresh air, Mrs. Carleton,” said the doctor, emphatically.  “Fresh air, change of scene, and exercise, are indispensable in your case.  You will die if you remain shut up after this fashion.  Come, take a ride with me.”

“Doctor!  How absurd!” exclaimed Mrs. Carleton, almost shocked by the suggestion.  “Ride with you!  What would people think?”

“A fig for people’s thoughts!  Get your shawl and bonnet, and take a drive with me.  What do you care for meddlesome people’s thoughts?  Come!”

The doctor knew his patient.

“But you’re not in earnest, surely?” There was a half-amused twinkle in the lady’s eyes.

“Never more in earnest.  I’m going to see a patient just out of the city, and the drive will be a charming one.  Nothing would please me better than to have your company.”

There was a vein of humor, and a spirit of “don’t care” in Mrs. Carleton, which had once made her independent, and almost hoydenish.  But fashionable associations, since her woman-life began, had toned her down into exceeding propriety.  Fashion and conventionality, however, were losing their influence, since enfeebled health kept her feet back from the world’s gay places; and the doctor’s invitation to a ride found her sufficiently disenthralled to see in it a pleasing novelty.

“I’ve half a mind to go,” she said, smiling.  She had not smiled before since the doctor came in.

“I’ll ring for your maid,” and Dr. Farleigh’s hand was on the bell-rope before Mrs. Carleton had space to think twice, and endanger a change of thought.

“I’m not sure that I am strong enough for the effort,” said Mrs. Carleton, and she laid her head back upon the cushions in a feeble way.

“Trust me for that,” replied the doctor.

The maid came in.

“Bring me a shawl and my bonnet, Alice; I am going to ride out with the doctor.”  Very languidly was the sentence spoken.

“I’m afraid, doctor, it will be too much for me.  You don’t know how weak I am.  The very thought of such an effort exhausts me.”

“Not a thought of the effort,” replied Dr. Farleigh.  “It isn’t that.”

“What is it?”

“A thought of appearances—­of what people will say.”

“Now, doctor!  You don’t think me so weak in that direction?”

“Just so weak,” was the free-spoken answer.  “You fashionable people are all afraid of each other.  You haven’t a spark of individuality or true independence.  No, not a spark.  You are quite strong enough to ride out in your own elegant carriage but with the doctor!—­O, dear, no!  If you were certain of not meeting Mrs. McFlimsey, perhaps the experiment might be adventured.  But she is always out on fine days.”

“Doctor, for shame!  How can you say that?”

And a ghost of color crept into the face of Mrs. Carleton, while her eyes grew brighter—­almost flashed.

The maid came in with shawl and bonnet.  Dr. Farleigh, as we have intimated, understood his patient, and said just two or three words more, in a tone half contemptuous.