mental troubles of the outer world eddied for a time on their way to
the distinguished specialist. A bowl of daffodils, a handsome bookcase
containing bound Victorian magazines and antiquated medical works, some
paintings of Scotch scenery, three big armchairs, a buhl clock, and
a bronze Dancing Faun, by their want of any collective idea enhanced
rather than mitigated the promiscuous disregard of the room. He drifted
to the midmost of the three windows and stared out despondently at
Harley Street.

For a minute or so he remained as still and limp as an empty jacket on
its peg, and then a gust of irritation stirred him.

"Damned fool I was to come here," he said... "DAMNED fool!

"Rush out of the place?...

"I've given my name."...

He heard the door behind him open and for a moment pretended not to
hear. Then he turned round. "I don't see what you can do for me," he
said.

"I'm sure _I_ don't," said the doctor. "People come here and talk."

There was something reassuringly inaggressive about the figure that
confronted Sir Richmond. Dr. Martineau's height wanted at least three
inches of Sir Richmond's five feet eleven; he was humanly plump, his
face was round and pink and cheerfully wistful, a little suggestive of
the full moon, of what the full moon might be if it could get fresh air
and exercise. Either his tailor had made his trousers too short or he