de of thought possible
was due to the absence of any other visible favoured applicant for
Miss Sally, and the certainty that he would see her once or twice
a week at least after he had gone back to his prescriptions and his
diary of cases?

Probably he wasn't; and when, on arriving at Lobjoit's, Fenwick
announced that he didn't want to go in yet, and would accompany the
doctor back to Iggulden's and take a turn round, the only misgiving
that could try for an insecure foothold in the mind now given up to a
delirium it called Sally was one that Fenwick might have some new
painful memory to tell. But he was soon at rest about this. Fenwick
wasn't going to talk about himself. Very much the reverse, if one's own
reverse is some one else. He was going to talk about the doctor, into
whose arm he slipped his own as soon as he had lighted his second cigar.
For they had not walked quick from Iggulden's.

"Now tell me about Sir Dioscorides Nayler and the epileptiform
disorders."

"Miss Sally's been telling you...."

"No, she didn't--Sally did." Both laughed. The doctor will make it
Sally next time--that's understood. "You told Sally and she told me.
What's the damage to be?"

"How much did Sally tell you?" The little formality comes easier to
the doctor's shyness as it figures, this time, quotation-wise. It is
a repeat of Fenwick's use of it.

"Sally said three thousand."

"Yes, that's what I told her. But it's not official. He may want more.
He may let me have it for three. Only I don't know why I should have
it for less than any one else."

"Never you mind why! That's no concern of yours, my dear boy. What
you've got to think of is of yourself and Mrs. Vereker. Dioscorides
will take care of himself--trust him!"

"Yes, of course, I have to think of my mother." One can hear in the
speaker's voice what may be either self-reproach for having neglected
this aspect of the case, or very tolerant indictment of Fenwick for
having mistakenly thought he had done so.

"What's the man thinking of? Of course you have, but I didn't mean
your mother. She's a dear old lady"--this came grudgingly--"but
I didn't mean her. I meant the Mrs. Vereker that's to come. Your wife,
dear fellow, your wife."

The way the young man flushed up, hesitated, stammered, couldn't
organize a sane word, amused Fenwick intensely. Of course he was, so
to speak, quite at home--understood the position thoroughly. But he
wasn't going to torment the doctor.