However, Charles also was conscious of a wish to get out. Why was he doing this, exactly? Really, now, what was the sense of it? The black worthy was leading him toward a shut door in the dusk beyond the dining-room: the office, clearly, of that patientless provider, Angela's father. Now the young man was aware of voices behind that door, or rather of a voice. It was a woman's voice, pitched in rather a complaining key, and for the first second Charles thought, with a start, that it was Angela's. It wasn't, of course; but his steps instinctively slackened. "Ah--the Doctor seems to be engaged--after all," he threw out, in lowered tones. "Perhaps I'd better come another day." "Naws', he ain't engaged. Just him and Miz' Flower talkin'." Charles, truth to tell, was scarcely reassured by that assurance: he did not like to run in on a strange couple this way, in particular when the lady was speaking in that tone. But his sour guide had not paused. And now there came a different voice through the thin door: a man's voice, faintly humorous, faintly sarcastic, and considerably weary. It was recognizably the voice of the esteemed Doctor, and it said, with fatal distinctness:-- "Is it possible you forget, madam, that you're speaking to your husband and the father of your children?" If the feet of the reluctant caller had lagged before, they now stopped short. One of his overminds perceived instantly that the strange words he had had no business to hear possessed a sort of distorted familiarity, like a horrid parody of a sentiment known and established; but as to that, there was not time to speculate now. What was only too plain was that something like a domestic scene was afoot in the office of the home, making the intrusion of a stranger peculiarly inapropos. "Don't!--I'll not stop now!" he murmured hastily and sharply. "Just take these cards here, and--" But the maladroit blackamoor was already opening the door; and the young man's last stand against the Call was put down with a brief and surly:-- "Genaman to see Doctor. Walk in." That settled the matter, beyond any undoing. Charles Garrott was a caller now, whether or no. With an embarrassment such as none of his many calculations about this hour had anticipated, he stepped blundering in upon Angela's unwitting parents. Dr. Flower's small office was dark; its light came only through a single window from a narrow air-well. Hence, the forms of the lady and gentleman in it were at first but dimly apprehended. Having turned in their seats at the sound which disturbed their privacy, they seemed to be peering together, in silent inquiry, at the intruder. It was the intruder's move, obviously; and, being in for it, he did his hasty best to pluck a hearty calling manner over his decided malease. "Oh!--good-afternoon, Dr. Flower! It's Garrott, Charles Garrott--perhaps you may remember--" Now the dim forms were rising together, the tall Doctor's with a jerk:--