Young Lansing walked with a slight limp. He was a tall, shock-haired, good-looking chap of twenty-five or six. He had the manner of one absolutely cocksure of himself—no doubt an admirable trait in one of his calling—and there were people who did not quite approve of him because he seemed to know as much as if not more than the old and time-tried practitioners of the town. He had new-fangled ideas, new methods, and he never by any chance so far forgot himself as to allude to an ailment or remedy in terms other than profoundly scientific. After hearing him classify your symptoms, it was impossible for you to deny that he was a young man of superlative attainments. But when you rushed around to the drug store with your prescription, believing yourself to be in the grip of a strange and horrific malady, and found that you had an ordinary sore throat and were to let the same old potash tablets dissolve in your mouth just as you had always done, you somehow felt that young Dr. Lansing was a trifle over-educated. He was, at twenty-six, what you would call bumptious. Nevertheless, he was a fine, earnest, likeable fellow—and even the most ignorant of patients would just as soon be ill in Latin as in plain English so long as he pulls through. “Good evening, Jane,” said he, as he came up to the steps. “How are you, Captain Baxter? Wonderful night, isn’t it?” “Wonderful,” said Oliver, who wasn’t thinking at all of the physical aspects of the night. “Don’t be a pig, Oliver,” cried Jane. “Hand over a couple of those cushions to Dr. Lansing. You look like a Sultan completely surrounded by luxury.” “Don’t bother,” interposed Lansing hastily. “I shan’t mind sitting here on the step. Doctors get used to—Oh, thanks, Captain. Since you force them upon me.” Twenty minutes later, Oliver looked at his wrist-watch, uttered an exclamation, and sprang to his feet. “I must be going, Jane,” he said. “Due at Sammy Parr’s house half an hour ago. I’m standing up with him at his wedding to-morrow, Doctor. Marriage is a complaint you can have more than once, it seems. It’s Sammy’s second attack.” “No cure for it, I believe,” said Lansing, arising. “Not necessarily fatal, however.” “If taken in time it can be prevented,” quoth Oliver, airily. “The symptoms are unmistakable.” “Haven’t you ever been exposed to it?” inquired Lansing, with a grin. “Frequently. It takes two to catch it, though. That’s how I’ve managed to escape. So long, Jane. I shan’t see you again for a few days. Going up for the wedding to-morrow and expect to stay in the city for a day or two. Good night, Doctor.” He took himself off in well-simulated haste. He had not been slow to size up the situation. He was _de trop_. A certain constraint had fallen upon the young couple at the opposite side of the steps. He had sustained the brunt of conversation for some time, notwithstanding several determined efforts on Jane’s part to do her share. Lansing seemed to have become absolutely inarticulate.