"I shall soon be able to amuse myself," Ronald declared. "There's the guitar, you know, doctor; it's one of the best companions in the world for an invalid. By Jove, Louie, I forgot to ask you if it had got damaged in the smash?" "What smash?" Doctor Warstone asked. I was glad that he put the question; it prevented me from answering my husband. "It was only a cab collision," I replied. "Very little mischief was done. At first I was afraid Ronald would suffer, but he seems to be none the worse for it." "Are you quite sure you are none the worse for it?" demanded the doctor, looking searchingly at me. "Do you think she is?" cried Ronald, anxiously. "She did look uncommonly pale afterwards. Louie, if there are any sprains or bruises that you haven't mentioned—" "I always mention everything," I interrupted, laughing. Doctor Warstone got up to take his leave, telling Ronald that it was time for him to go to bed. I followed the doctor out into the passage, closing the parlour door behind me. "What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Nerves out of order? The cab smash must have given you a shake." "It didn't hurt me. But, oh, doctor, how foolish you will think me!" "I have thought you foolish ever since I first saw you," he responded, with one of his kindly smiles. "I know; everybody does. I am fretting about the guitar. I don't know how to tell my poor boy that it is broken; and—worse still—I can't imagine how we shall get another." "A man with a good little wife can exist without a guitar. You are at your old tricks—taking things too seriously." "I daresay it seems so," I admitted, meekly. "But, do you believe in hereditary tendencies?" "Humph! What of that?" "Ronald's love of the guitar is hereditary. His aunt, Inez Greystock, is said to have been passionately attached to her guitar. She could not rest unless it was ever by her side: her hands were seeking for it always. It is the same with Ronald. When he finds that the thing is battered and useless, there will be something gone from his life. I can hardly hope to make you understand all that it has been to him." "Humph," said the doctor again. "Suppose I say that it is quite possible to replace this precious guitar. Suppose I tell you that I know of one—a good one, too—that you can have for nothing. Will that comfort you, I wonder?" "Comfort me! You are like a good magician!" "A good magician is only a doctor practising under another name. Now listen. Give Ronald his breakfast in bed to-morrow, and then leave him hurriedly, pretending that you must do some shopping. Make your way, as fast as you can, to Soho Square; saunter up and down before the door of the great piano store, and wait till I come." "I will do all that you tell me," I promised, gratefully. And he went into the dusk of the April night.