'You'll be all right, Joyce,' he said, smiling to the child and pushing
the blonde hair off her brow. She smiled back winsomely into his face.

He went downstairs and ate his meal alone. Nurse served him. She liked
waiting on him. All women liked him and liked to do things for him.

The doctor came--a fat country practitioner, pleasant and kind.

'What, little girl, been tumbling down, have you? There's a thing to be
doing, for a smart little lady like you! What! And cutting your knee!
Tut-tut-tut! That _wasn't_ clever of you, now was it? Never mind, never
mind, soon be better. Let us look at it. Won't hurt you. Not the least in
life. Bring a bowl with a little warm water, nurse. Soon have it all
right again, soon have it all right.'

Joyce smiled at him with a pale smile of faint superiority. This was
_not_ the way in which she was used to being talked to.

He bent down, carefully looking at the little, thin, wounded knee of the
child. Egbert bent over him.

'Oh, dear, oh, dear! Quite a deep little cut. Nasty little cut. Nasty
little cut. But, never mind. Never mind, little lady. We'll soon have it
better. Soon have it better, little lady. What's your name?'

'My name is Joyce,' said the child distinctly.

'Oh, really!' he replied. 'Oh, really! Well, that's a fine name too, in
my opinion. Joyce, eh?--And how old might Miss Joyce be? Can she tell me