ow you do it. A man must give
freely of himself to be as popular as you are, Clay--do you ever find
yourself giving out under the strain, and in need of a rest?"

"Just a little tired, sometimes," the young man confessed, "but it's
nothing--at all."

The old man watched him narrowly, taking careful note that the pallor
of his face had suddenly changed to a heightened color. "When we get
supper, Clay, I want to have a serious talk with you. You may remember
that I approached this subject the last time you were in the city.
I want to give you the report on the examination I gave you at that
time." There was a quality in his voice which gave the young man a
momentary sense of dread, not unmixed with a certain impatience. He
was too tired to be bothered. He wanted nothing but a chance to think
his own thoughts, as the sorrel team struck off the miles with their
tireless feet.

When they had had supper at the Chinese restaurant, they went to the
doctor's office. The sun, though long since set, still threw spikes
of light upon the western sky and caught the under side of one ragged
cloud which seemed to have been forgotten in an otherwise clear sky.

In the office, a cheerful coal fire glowed through its mica windows,
and in front of the doctor's leather chair, were his slippers, and
over it was thrown a brightly colored house coat.

A gasoline lamp threw a strong white light on the comfortable room,
and the city papers lay, still unfolded, on the table beside a pile of
letters.

The old doctor exclaimed with delight:

"Who fixes you up so fine, Clay--surely there's a woman around this
place!"

"My landlady"--said the young doctor, "looks after me."

"I know, I know," said the older man, "I know the kind of fellow you
are--the kind women love to fuss around. I'll bet you get dozens of
bedroom slippers and ties and mufflers at Christmas. Women are like
cats--they love to rub their heads against any one that will stroke
them and say 'poor pussy'--they're all the same."

The old doctor seated himself in the big chair and warmed his hands
before the glowing coals.

"And now, Clay, I want to talk to you. There are certain facts that
must be told. I have been interested in your case ever since I met
you. You are a distinct type, with your impulsive temperament, clear
skin and tapering fingers. But what I have to say to you would have
been said easier if I did not know you so well--and if I had not been
here and seen