The dog faintly wagged its tail, the man stuck out his jaw and covered his pipe with his hands, and puffed intently, losing himself in the tobacco, looking down all the while at the dog with an absent brown eye. The dog looked up at him in mournful distrust. Joe stood with his knees stuck out, in real horsy fashion. “Have you had a letter from Lucy?” Fred Henry asked of his sister. “Last week,” came the neutral reply. “And what does she say?” There was no answer. “Does she _ask_ you to go and stop there?” persisted Fred Henry. “She says I can if I like.” “Well, then, you’d better. Tell her you’ll come on Monday.” This was received in silence. “That’s what you’ll do then, is it?” said Fred Henry, in some exasperation. But she made no answer. There was a silence of futility and irritation in the room. Malcolm grinned fatuously. “You’ll have to make up your mind between now and next Wednesday,” said Joe loudly, “or else find yourself lodgings on the kerbstone.” The face of the young woman darkened, but she sat on immutable. “Here’s Jack Fergusson!” exclaimed Malcolm, who was looking aimlessly out of the window. “Where?” exclaimed Joe, loudly. “Just gone past.” “Coming in?” Malcolm craned his neck to see the gate. “Yes,” he said. There was a silence. Mabel sat on like one condemned, at the head of the table. Then a whistle was heard from the kitchen. The dog got up and barked sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted: “Come on.” After a moment a young man entered. He was muffled up in overcoat and a purple woollen scarf, and his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was pulled down on his head. He was of medium height, his face was rather long and pale, his eyes looked tired. “Hello, Jack! Well, Jack!” exclaimed Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely said, “Jack.” “What’s doing?” asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry. “Same. We’ve got to be out by Wednesday.—Got a cold?” “I have—got it bad, too.” “Why don’t you stop in?” “_Me_ stop in? When I can’t stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a chance.” The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent. “It’s a knock-out, isn’t it,” said Joe, boisterously, “if a doctor goes round croaking with a cold. Looks bad for the patients, doesn’t it?” The young doctor looked at him slowly. “Anything the matter with _you_, then?” he asked sarcastically. “Not as I know of. Damn your eyes, I hope not. Why?” “I thought you were very concerned about the patients, wondered if you might be one yourself.” “Damn it, no, I’ve never been patient to no flaming doctor, and hope I never shall be,” returned Joe. At this point Mabel rose from the table, and they all seemed to become aware of her existence. She began putting the dishes together. The young doctor looked at her, but did not address her. He had not greeted her. She went out of the room with the tray, her face impassive and unchanged. “When are you off then, all of you?” asked the doctor.