“Is the love of three years to be thrown aside like an old glove, just because—­”

Her face was so wild and strained that the lies froze upon my tongue.

“Oh, Ezra, I could follow him barefooted through the snow if only he—­”

“He’s leaving Grand Central to-morrow at ten forty-five,” I said.

She fumbled at her neck, and almost tore away the diamond locket that reposed there.

“Take him this,” she whispered hoarsely.  “Take it to him at once, and say I sent it.  Say that I beg him to return—­that my pride crumbles at the thought of his going away so far into danger.”

I put the locket carefully into my pocket.

“And, Eleanor, try and don’t rub him the wrong way about his name.  Is it worth while?  There have to be Joneses, you know.”

“Tell him,” she burst out, “tell him—­oh, I never meant to wound him—­truly, I didn’t . . . a name that’s good enough for him is good enough for me!”

The next morning at nine I pulled up my Porcher-Mufflin car before Jones’ door.  He was sitting at his table reading a book, and he made no motion to rise as I came in.  He gave me a pale, expressionless stare instead, such as an ancient Christian might have worn when the call-boy told him the lions were ready in the Colosseum.  Resignation, obstinacy and defiance—­all nicely blended under a turn-the-other-cheek exterior.  He looked woebegone, and his thin, handsome face betrayed a sleepless night and a breakfastless morning.  I could feel that my presence was the last straw to this unfortunate medical camel.

I threw in a genial remark about the weather, and took a seat.

Jones hunched himself together, and squirmed a sad little squirm.

“Mr. Westoby,” he said, “I once made use of a very strong expression in regard to you.  I said, if you remember, that I’d be obliged if you’d keep your paws—­”

“Don’t apologize,” I interrupted.  “I forgot it long ago.”

“You’ve taken me up wrong,” he continued drearily.  “I should like you to consider the remark repeated now.  Yes, sir, repeated.”

“Oh, bosh!” I exclaimed.

“You have a very tough epidermis,” he went on.  “Quite the toughest epidermis I have met with in my whole professional career.  A paper adequately treating your epidermis would make a sensation before any medical society.”

Somehow I couldn’t feel properly insulted.  The whole business struck me as irresistibly comical.  I lay back in my chair—­my uninvited chair—­and roared with laughter.

I couldn’t forbear asking him what treatment he’d recommend.

He pointed to the door, and said laconically:  “Fresh air.”

I retorted by laying the diamond locket before him.

“My dear fellow,” I said, as he gazed at it transfixed, “don’t let us go on like a pair of fools.  Eleanor charged me to give you this, and beg you to return.”