A milk cart rattled down the street, the driver standing at the back, cracking a whip; he wore an immense geranium flower stuck in the lapel of his coat. Firm as a rock he stood, bending back a little in the swaying cart. Andreas craned his neck to watch him all the way down the road, even after he had gone, listening for the sharp sound of those rattling cans. “H’m, not much wrong with him,” he reflected. “Wouldn’t mind a taste of that life myself. Up early, work all over by eleven o’clock, nothing to do but loaf about all day until milking time.” Which he knew was an exaggeration, but he wanted to pity himself. The maid opened the door, and stood aside for Doctor Erb. Andreas wheeled round; the two men shook hands. “Well, Binzer,” said the doctor jovially, brushing some crumbs from a pearl-coloured waistcoat, “son and heir becoming importunate?” Up went Binzer’s spirits with a bound. Son and heir, by Jove! He was glad to have to deal with a man again. And a sane fellow this, who came across this sort of thing every day of the week. “That’s about the measure of it, Doctor,” he answered, smiling and picking up his hat. “Mother dragged me out of bed this morning with imperative orders to bring you along.” “Gig will be round in a minute. Drive back with me, won’t you? Extraordinary, sultry day; you’re as red as a beetroot already.” Andreas affected to laugh. The doctor had one annoying habit—imagined he had the right to poke fun at everybody simply because he was a doctor. “The man’s riddled with conceit, like all these professionals,” Andreas decided. “What sort of night did Frau Binzer have?” asked the doctor. “Ah, here’s the gig. Tell me on the way up. Sit as near the middle as you can, will you, Binzer? Your weight tilts it over a bit one side—that’s the worst of you successful business men.” “Two stone heavier than I, if he’s a pound,” thought Andreas. “The man may be all right in his profession—but heaven preserve me.” “Off you go, my beauty.” Doctor Erb flicked the little brown mare. “Did your wife get any sleep last night?” “No; I don’t think she did,” answered Andreas shortly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not satisfied that she hasn’t a nurse.” “Oh, your mother’s worth a dozen nurses,” cried the doctor, with immense gusto. “To tell you the truth, I’m not keen on nurses—too raw—raw as rump-steak. They wrestle for a baby as though they were wrestling with Death for the body of Patroclus.... Ever seen that picture by an English artist. Leighton? Wonderful thing—full of sinew!” “There he goes again,” thought Andreas, “airing off his knowledge to make a fool of me.” “Now your mother—she’s firm—she’s capable. Does what she’s told with a fund of sympathy. Look at these shops we’re passing—they’re festering sores. How on earth this government can tolerate—” “They’re not so bad—sound enough—only want a coat of paint.” The doctor whistled a little tune and flicked the mare again.