grateful that he did not
appear to notice the rush of unexpected tears to her eyes. She busied
herself with the urn until she could control her voice; then said, with a
rather tremulous laugh: "Ah, thank you! Presently--if I may--I gladly
will consult you. Meanwhile, how do you like 'the scene of the moment'?
Do you consider my boudoir improved? Michael made all these alterations
before he went away. The new electric lights are a patent arrangement of
his own. And had you seen his portrait? A wonderful likeness, isn't it?"

The doctor looked around him, appreciatively.

"I have been admiring the room, ever since I entered," he said. "It is
charming." Then he raised his eyes to the picture over the
mantelpiece:--the life-sized portrait of a tall, bearded man, with the
high brow of the scholar and thinker; the eyes of the mystic; the
gentle unruffled expression of the saint. He appeared old enough to be
the father of the woman in whose boudoir his portrait was the central
object. The artist had painted him in an old Norfolk shooting-suit,
leather leggings, hunting-crop in hand, seated in a garden chair, beside
a rustic table. Everything in the picture was homely, old, and
comfortable; the creases in the suit were old friends; the ancient
tobacco pouch on the table was worn and stained. Russet-brown
predominated, and the highest light in the painting was the clear blue
of those dreamy, musing eyes. They were bent upon the table, where
sat, in an expectant attitude of adoring attention, a white toy-poodle.
The palpable devotion between the big man and the tiny dog, the
concentrated affection with which they looked at one another, were very
cleverly depicted. The picture might have been called: "We two"; also
it left an impression of a friendship in which there had been no room for
a third. The doctor glanced, for an instant, at the lovely woman on
the lounge, behind the silver urn, and his subconsciousness propounded the
question: "Where did _she_ come in?" But the next moment he turned
towards the large armchair on his right, where a small dejected mass of
white curls lay in a huddled heap. It was impossible to distinguish
between head and tail.

"Is this the little dog?" asked the doctor.

"Yes; that is Peter. But in the picture he is smart and properly clipped,
and feeling better than he does just now. Peter and Michael are devoted
to each other; and, when Michael is away, Peter is left in my charge. But
I am not fon