"It's a wonder you wouldn't send for him if you miss him that bad,"
he remarked, after a minute, hoping the Little Doctor would not find
anything amiss with his tone, which he meant should be cordial and
interested--and which evinced plenty of interest, of a kind, but was
curiously lacking in cordiality.

"I did beg, and tease, and entreat--but Cecil's in a hospital--as
a physician, you understand, not as a patient, and can't get off
just yet. In a month or two, perhaps--"

Dinner, called shrilly by the Countess, interrupted her, and she
flitted out of the room looking as little like a lovelorn maiden
as she did like a doctor--which was little indeed.

"She begged, and teased, and entreated," repeated Chip, savagely
to himself when the door closed upon her, and fell into gloomy
meditation, which left him feeling that there was no good thing
in this wicked world--no, not one--that was not appropriated by some
one with not sense enough to understand and appreciate his blessing.

After dinner the Little Doctor spoke to the unsuspecting critics.

"That picture which I started a couple of weeks ago is finished at last,
and I want you good people to come and tell me what you think of it.
I want you all--you, Slim, and Louise, you are to come and give your
opinion."

"Well, I don't know the first thing about paintin'," remonstrated the
Countess, coming in from the kitchen.