"Dr. Cautley?"

"Yes. I do not know what I have done, or how I have offended him, but he
has not been near me for over two months."

"Perhaps he has been busy--in fact, I know he has."

"He has always been busy. It is not that. It is something--well, I hardly
care to speak of it, it has been so very painful. My dear"--Miss
Quincey's voice sank to an awful whisper--"he has cut me in the street."

"Oh, I know--he _will_ do it; he has done it to all his patients. He is
so dreadfully absent-minded."

If Miss Quincey had not been as guileless as the little old maid she was,
she would have recognised these indications of intimacy; as it was, she
said with superior conviction, "My dear, I _know_ Dr. Cautley. He has
never cut me before, and he would not do it now without a reason. There
has been some awful mistake. If I only knew what I had done!"

"You've done nothing. I wouldn't worry if I were you."

"I can't help worrying. You don't know, Rhoda. The bitter and terrible
part of this friendship is, and always has been, that I am under
obligations to Dr. Cautley. I owe everything to him; I cannot tell you
what he has done for me, and here I am, not allowed, and I never shall be
allowed, to do anything for him." A sob struggled in Miss Quincey's
throat.