"Sorry," said Kirk.

Mrs. Porter resumed her tour of the studio. She was interrupted by the
arrival of the doctor, a cheerful little old man with the bearing of
one sure of his welcome. He was an old friend of Kirk's.

"Well, what's the trouble? I couldn't come sooner. I was visiting a
case. _I_ work."

"There is no trouble," said Mrs. Porter. The doctor spun round,
startled. In the dimness of the studio he had not perceived her. "Mr.
Winfield's servant has injured his knee very superficially. There is
practically nothing wrong with him. I have made a thorough
examination."

The doctor looked from one to the other.

"Is the case in other hands?" he asked.

"You bet it isn't," said Kirk. "Mrs. Porter just looked in for a family
chat and a glimpse of my pictures. You'll find George in bed, first
floor on the left upstairs, and a very remarkable sight he is. He is
wearing red hair with purple pyjamas. Why go abroad when you have not
yet seen the wonders of your native land?"

* * * * *

That night Lora Delane Porter wrote in the diary which, with that
magnificent freedom from human weakness that marked every aspect of her
life, she kept all the year round instead of only during the first week