‘Am I as great a fool as dear old Geoffrey?’ he asked himself during that rapid walk. ‘No; at least I know something of my goddess. I could read the story of her patient self-sacrificing life even in that one hour. Besides, I am by no means in love with her. I am only interested.’ It was a new feeling for him to approach the gate with the certainty of admission. He tugged resolutely at the iron ring, and heard the rusty wires creak their objection to such disturbance. Then came a shuffling slipshod step across the barren forecourt, which, with different tenants, might have been a garden. This footstep announced the old woman in the bonnet, who seemed to him the twin sister of his own housekeeper, so closely do old women in that sphere of life resemble each other—like babies. She mumbled something, and admitted him to the sacred precincts. The same half-light glimmered in the hall as when he had seen it first; the whole treasury of art wrapped in shadow. The same brighter glow streamed from the panelled parlour as the old woman opened the door and announced ‘Dr. Davory.’ Homer Sivewright was sitting in his high-backed arm-chair by the hearth, getting all the heat he could out of the contracted fire. His granddaughter sat opposite him, knitting with four needles, which flashed like electric wires under the guidance of the soft white hands. The tea-tray—with its quaint old teapot in buff and black Wedgewood—adorned the table. ‘I thought you’d come,’ said the old man, ‘though my letter was not very inviting, if you cultivate wealthy patients.’ ‘I do not,’ answered Lucius, taking the chair indicated to him, after receiving a stately foreign curtsy from Miss Sivewright, an unfamiliar recognition which seemed to place him at an ineffable distance. ‘I was very glad to get your note, and to respond to it promptly. I shall be still more glad if you will place my medical services upon a friendly footing. At your age a man requires the constant attendance of a doctor who knows his constitution. There may be very little treatment wanted, only the supervision of an experienced eye. Let me be your friend as well as your medical adviser, and drop in whenever I am wanted, without question of payment.’ The old man shot a keen glance from his cold gray eyes; eyes which looked as if they had been in the habit of prying into men’s thoughts. ‘Why should you be so generous?’ he asked; ‘I have no claim upon you, not even that hollow pretence which the world calls friendship. You have nothing to gain from me. My will, disposing of my collection—which is all I have to bequeath—was made ten years ago; and nothing would ever tempt me to alter it by so much as a ten-pound legacy. You see there’s nothing to be gained by showing me kindness.’ ‘Grandfather!’ remonstrated the girl, in her low serious voice.