As the quarters were chimed by a clock on a cabinet near him, as ten o’clock came, then eleven—he began to feel a peculiar sensation of uneasiness. It annoyed him. What was there to be uneasy about? he asked himself. Was he uneasy because he was wasting his time? Had he thought he was there in the cause of science, to see a patient that had baffled greater nerve-doctors than himself? Yes, that was it. Men came up to him and talked, and he conversed with them, still watching the doorway. Then guests began to depart, and feeling as if he had been made a fool of, he sought out his hostess and somewhat reproachfully told her he must leave, now. “I am sorry I cannot wait any longer to see my _patient_,” he said with emphasis. “Your patient?” repeated Lady Forwood. “Oh, dear! You expected to meet Mercedes!” she said. “You thought I was arranging something like they did with the Paris doctor. No! I wanted you particularly to know Lady Boisville. Mercedes and her husband are with the Arrans in Wales. I had a more cheerful letter from her than I have had for a long time. Her husband seems to like Wales, and all is _couleur de rose_.” “I am happy to hear it,” said Hugh. Then he made his way out of the house and walked home, utterly disgusted with himself—ashamed of himself to himself for the first time in his life. CHAPTER XI. MERCEDES. For the first time in his life Dr. Paull felt that he had considerably lost in his respect for himself, and he set himself to inquire into his mental and moral condition. “I have lowered myself in some way,” he thought. (He was thinking of self in a strictly professional sense, be it understood.) “It has been the doctor running after the patient, not the patient seeking the doctor. It must not occur again. I know I _meant_ well—but it must not occur again.” After this neat little compromise with his conscience, which perhaps was rusty for want of work and therefore not equal to the occasion, he as it were shook hands with himself, and set to work again, ignoring the question of unhappy young princesses with neglectful husbands and doubtful counts in dangerous proximity. It was the old life again. Patients at home in the morning, hospital work later, later still consultations or sudden calls. Then evenings spent quietly with Ralph, talking over his late tour with the geologist and helping him to arrange his specimens. The boy was never so happy as when his father was sharing his life, thus. But he loved him unselfishly, and the seed of doubt whether that father was as well or as happy as he should be was sown, and had already fructified. “Father,” he said suddenly, one evening, “why have you given up going out?” “My dear boy, I cannot give up what I never began,” said Dr. Paull, startled so that his pale face flushed. “You went to the opera and to parties,” persisted Ralph. “And you looked so jolly then. You don’t now. You are quite different.”