slowly, her foreign accent more strongly
marked than usual. "My mistress has a slight headache and is in her own
room. She would like to see you before you go."

Accordingly, after a prolonged parting from Cherry, who shamelessly
importuned him to neglect his other and less important patients, Anstice
accompanied Tochatti to Mrs. Carstairs' sitting-room where its owner
presumably awaited him.

The room itself was in its way as uncommon as its occupant, being
furnished entirely in black and white. The walls were white, the carpet
black. The chairs and couches were upholstered in black-and-white
chintz, with a profusion of cushions of both hues, and the pictures on
the white walls were etchings in black oak frames. On the mantelpiece
was a collection of carved ivory toys of all kinds, with here and there
an ebony elephant from Ceylon or Assam. The paint on doors and windows
was black, yet in spite of the sombreness of the general scheme there
was nothing depressing, nothing sinister in the finished effect.

Possibly because Chloe Carstairs was an artist--or a wise woman who knew
the value of relief--one note of colour was struck in the presence of a
huge china bowl filled with tulips of every conceivable shade of flame
and orange and yellow and red; but with that exception black and white
predominated, and when Chloe Carstairs rose from her low chair near the
window and advanced towards him, she, too, carried out the subtle
suggestion of the whole room.

Dressed in white, her silky black hair and blue eyes the only bits of
colour about her, she looked paler than usual, and Anstice jumped to the
conclusion she had sent for him to prescribe for her.

"Good morning, Dr. Anstice." Anstice, who hated shaking hands with most
people, always liked her firm, cool handshake. "How is Cherry? You find
her better?"

"Yes, she is really quite herself again, and her arm has healed most
satisfactorily." He stood in front of her as he spoke, and studied her
face carefully. "But you don't look very fit, Mrs. Carstairs. Can I do
anything for you now that your little daughter has finished with me?"

She looked at him with a smile which was more melancholy than usual.

"I think not," she said slowly. "You see, I am not ill, only a little
tired--tired with remembering days that are gone."

"Isn't that rather a fatal thing to do?" His own bitter memories gave
him the clue to her state of mind. "No good ever comes of remembering
sad t