Phœbe had a horror of doctors. To call in a doctor implied that you thought that you were ill. Turkey rhubarb, quinine, and embrocation, according to her, were a trinity of greater potency than the whole college of surgeons, and she was not naturally nervous. She even doubted whether the epidemic of typhoid which had visited Wroxton in the autumn might not have been made too much of, and a plentiful exhibition of the staple drugs, she thought, should have been tried first. For this swelling underneath her collar-bone she tried all these in succession, but smarting, deafness, and general upset seemed only to have added to her discomfort. The pain, which at first had been only a dull ache, grew intenser. At times it stabbed and pierced her, and now, after a day of pain, a sleepless, tossing night succeeded. She was still firmly determined not to see a doctor; but when one afternoon, Clara being out, she had met Jeannie in the street, and had been persuaded to go to Bolton Street to have tea with her, Jeannie saying it would be a kindness, since she was alone, she confessed, in answer to a question of hers, that she was not well. “I have pain,” she said, “oh, such pain! And it is all I can do to prevent Clara seeing it. I cannot sleep for it. Oh, Miss Avesham, do tell me that it is nothing.” Jeannie had felt anxious when she saw her that day, but she tried to be consoling. “Very likely it is nothing,” she said. “But one cannot tell. Do see a doctor at once. The thing worries you and makes you ill. If there is anything wrong, it ought to be attended to; but if you are assured it is nothing, that will be a relief, will it not?” “But Clara will know,” objected Phœbe. “If it is anything wrong she would fret so.” “Oh, you are absurd,” said Jeannie, frankly. “Supposing nothing is wrong, you need never tell her. But supposing you ought to see a doctor, how she would blame herself for not having insisted. Where is the pain?” Miss Phœbe, with much diffidence, alluded distantly to her collar-bone. “I think it is probably rheumatic,” she added. Jeannie rang the bell, and went to the table to write a note. “Now, Miss Phœbe,” she said, “you are going to see the doctor here and now. Don’t say you won’t, for it is no use. I am writing to Dr. Maitland; he will be at home by now, and I am sure he will come here at once. You see, in this way your sister will not know.” The poor lady leaned back in her chair, almost with relief. “It is very kind of you,” she said. “And indeed I think Clara must see if it went on any longer.” Jeannie gave the note to the butler, and when he had left the room: “I am sure it is wise, Miss Phœbe,” she said. “Why, if I or Arthur have an ache in our little finger we fill the house with surgeons. There is never anything the matter, and they tell us so. Now Dr. Maitland will be here in ten minutes or less. You shall go to my room, and he will look at you there.”