would smile in a faint and dignified manner, and say:

"Ah, I see. Very amusing indeed. We had an old coachmen once who was very
clever, I believe, at that sort of thing, but Mr. Gervase was obliged to
send him away, the laughter of the other domestics was so very
boisterous."

Lucian laughed, not boisterously, but good-humouredly, at the doctor's
joke. He liked Burrows, feeling that he was a man and not an automatic
gabbling machine.

"You look a little pulled down," said the doctor, when Lucian rose to go.
"No, you don't want my medicine. Plenty of beef and beer will do you more
good than drugs. I daresay it's the hot weather that has thinned you a
bit. Oh, you'll be all right again in a month."

As Lucian strolled out of the town on his way home, he passed a small
crowd of urchins assembled at the corner of an orchard. They were
enjoying themselves immensely. The "healthy" boy, the same whom he had
seen some weeks ago operating on a cat, seemed to have recognized his
selfishness in keeping his amusements to himself. He had found a poor
lost puppy, a little creature with bright pitiful eyes, almost human in
their fond, friendly gaze. It was not a well-bred little dog; it was
certainly not that famous puppy "by Vick out of Wasp"; it had rough hair
and a foolish long tail which it wagged beseechingly, at once deprecating
severity and asking kindness. The poor animal had evidently been used to
gentle treatment; it would look up in a boy's face, and give a leap,
fawning on him, and then bark in a small doubtful voice, and cower a
moment on the ground, astonished perhaps at the strangeness, the bustle
and animation. The boys were beside themselves with eagerness; there was