"You're younger than I expected," went on Mrs. Sykes kindly. "I hope you
ain't entirely dependent on your practice in Coombe?"

The amazed doctor was understood to murmur something about "private
means."

"That's good. You'd starve if you hadn't. Coombe's a terrible healthy
place and poor Doc. Simmonds didn't pay a call a week. I just felt like
some one ought to warn you. I despise folks who hold back from telling
things because they ain't quite pleasant. Know the worst, I always say;
it's better in the end. Of course, as Mark says, your being a
Presbyterian will make considerable diff'rence. Some folks thought Doc.
Simmonds was pretty nigh an infiddle!"

Too overcome by his feelings to answer, Callandar followed her up the
narrow stair and into a clean bright room with green-tinted walls and
yellow matting on the floor.

Mrs. Sykes waved a deprecatory hand, at once exhibiting and apologising
for so much splendour.

"This is the spare-room," she explained. "And there," pointing to the
high, old-fashioned bed, "is Ann."

Callandar crossed the immaculate matting gingerly, taking Ann on faith,
as it were, for, from the door, no; Ann was visible, only a very small
dent in the big whiteness of the bed.

"Ann! Here's the doctor!"