fire, her lips still shaped in that firm, wise, and philosophical smile
with which doctors and nurses--and indeed, sometimes, anybody who happens
to be feeling pretty well himself--console, or exasperate, suffering
humanity. "A very good thing the poor silly child did come to me!" That
was the form her thoughts took. For although Dr. Mary Arkroyd was, and
knew herself to be, no dazzling genius at her profession--in moments of
candor she would speak of having "scraped through" her qualifying
examinations--she had a high opinion of her own common sense and her
power of guiding weaker mortals.

For all that Jeanne's cheek bulged with a chocolate, there was open
resentment on her full, pouting lips, and a hint of the same feeling in
Cynthia's still liquid eyes, when mistress and maid came downstairs
again. Without heeding these signs, Mary drew on her gauntlets, took her
walking-stick, and flung the hall door open. A rush of cold wind filled
the little hall. Jeanne shivered ostentatiously; Cynthia sighed and
muffled herself deeper in her fur collar. "A good walking day!" said Mary
decisively.

Up to now, Inkston had not impressed Cynthia Walford very favorably. It
was indeed a mixed kind of a place. Like many villages which lie near to
London and have been made, by modern developments, more accessible than
once they were, it showed chronological strata in its buildings. Down by
the station all was new, red, suburban. Mounting the tarred road, the
wayfarer bore slightly to the right along the original village street;
bating the aggressive "fronts" of one or two commercial innovators, this
was old, calm, serene, gray in tone and restful, ornamented by three or
four good class Georgian houses, one quite fine, with well wrought iron
gates (this was Dr. Irechester's); turning to the right again, but more
sharply, the wayfarer found himself once more in villadom, but a