" "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. A fine doctor from the Arte de Medici e Speziali was commissioned directly from Rome to oversee her care. Her head swam. Ennison looked down on him in disgust. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. It must be somewhere hereabouts. " "I was never going to tell anybody," she added. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon.
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