He closed the door, took off his slouch hat, crossed the room, laid his small black bag on the sofa, then came and stood beside my bed. He was extremely deliberate. I watched him anxiously. He said no word for some time, while we stared at one another. He was of medium height, about sixty-five years old, with white hair, dark eyes behind magnifying spectacles, the strong face deeply lined, voice and manner stern to the point of being forbidding--but when I saw it rarely--a most winning smile. Except for the spectacles, he was like a small edition of Bismarck. “I am a doctor,” he said, after a prolonged silent inspection, “and I live down the street. Your friend, an Englishman, asked me to call. Are _you_ English?” I told him I was a reporter on the _Evening Sun_, adding that I had no money at the moment. The suspicion his manner had not attempted to hide at once showed itself plainly. His manner and voice were brusque to offensiveness, as he said flatly: “I expect to be paid. I have a wife and child.” He stood there, staring at me, hard and cold. I repeated that I had nothing to pay him with, and I lay back in bed, wishing he would go, for I felt uncomfortable and ashamed, annoyed as well by his unsympathetic attitude. “Humph!” he grunted, still staring without moving. There was an awkward silence I thought would never end. “Humph!” he grunted again presently. “I egsamine you anyhow. How old are you?” “Twenty-two,” I said, “and a bit.” “Humph!” he repeated, as he examined me rather roughly. “You’re very thin. Too thin!” He hurt me, and I did not answer. “Not eating enough,” he added, and then gave his verdict. It was an abscess, I must keep my bed for a month or six weeks, an operation might be necessary.... I asked how much I owed him. “Two dollars,” he said. He gave me his address, and I replied that I would bring the money to him as soon as I could, but that he need not call again. He stared severely at me with those magnified eyes. “Haven’t you got two dollars even?” he asked curtly. “I’ve told you the truth. And, anyhow, I didn’t send for you. I didn’t ask my friend to fetch you either.” I could think of nothing else to say. His verdict had flattened me out. I was angry, besides, with Boyde, for not consulting me first, though I knew he had done the right thing. Another period of awkward silence followed, during which the doctor never moved, but stood gazing down at me. Suddenly his eye rested on the book I had been reading. He put out a hand and picked it up. He glanced through the pages of the “Gita,” then began to read more carefully. A few minutes passed. He became absorbed.