company, as though inviting their understanding, “he insists that he’s not the man he was.”     

       “Absurd!” smiled Naylor. “Not much older than I am, is he?”     

       “Only just turned seventy, I believe. But the idea’s very persistent.”     

       “Hypochondria!” snapped Miss Delia.     

       “Not altogether. I’m afraid there is a little real heart trouble. Dr. Irechester—”     

       “Oh, with Dr. Irechester, dear Mr. Beaumaroy, you’re all right!”     

       Again Beaumaroy’s glance—that glance of innocent appeal—ranged over the company (except the General, out of its reach). He seemed troubled and embarrassed.     

       “A most accomplished man, evidently, and a friend of yours, of course. But, well, there it is, a mere fancy, of course, but unhappily my old friend doesn’t take to him. He, he thinks that he’s rather inquisitorial. A doctor’s duty, I suppose—”     

       “Irechester’s a sound man, a very sound man,” said Mr. Naylor. “And, after all one can ask almost any question if one does it tactfully, can’t one, Miss Wall?”     

       “As a matter of fact, he’s only seen Mr. Saffron twice—he had a little chill. But his manner, unfortunately, rather, er—alarmed—”     

       Gertie Naylor, with the directness of youth, propounded a solution of the difficulty. “If you don’t like Dr. Irechester—”     

       “Oh, it’s not I who—”     

       “Why not have Mary?” Gertie made her suggestion eagerly. She was very fond of Mary, who, from the height of age, wisdom and professional dignity, had stooped to offer her an equal friendship.     

       “She means Dr. Mary Arkroyd,” Mrs. Naylor explained.     

       “Yes, I know, Mrs. Naylor, I know about Dr. Arkroyd. In fact, I know her by sight. But—”     

       “Perhaps you don’t believe in women doctors?” Alec suggested.     

       “It’s not that. I’ve no prejudices. But 

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