Proceeding on his way alone in the Imp--he had not wanted even Johnny Caruthers's company to-day--Burns found the heaviness of his spirit lifting slightly--very slightly. Tenderness toward the little lost patient who had loved and trusted him so well began gradually to usurp the place of the black hatred of what he felt to be his own incompetency. Passing a florist's shop he suddenly felt like giving that which, as it had occurred to him before, had seemed to him would be only a mockery from his hands. He went in and selected flowers--dozens and dozens of white rosebuds, fresh and sweet--and sent them, with no card at all, to her home. Then he drove on to his next patient, to find himself surrounded by an eager group of happy people, all rejoicing in what appeared to them to be a marvelous deliverance from a great impending danger, entirely due to his own foresight and skill. He knew well enough that it was Nature herself who had come to the rescue, and frankly told them so. But they continued to thrust the honour upon him, and he could but come away with a softened heart. “I'll go on again,” he said to himself. “I've got to go on. Last night I thought I couldn't, but, of course, that's nonsense. The best I can--God knows I try... And I'll never make that mistake again... But oh!--little Lucile--little Lucille!” CHAPTER X. IN WHICH HE PROVES HIMSELF A HOST “Winifred,” said R. P. Burns, invading Mrs. Arthur Chester's sunny living-room one crisp October morning, leather cap in hand, “I'm going to give a dinner to-night. Stag dinner for Grant, of Edinburgh--man who taught me half the most efficient surgery I know. He's over here, and I've just found it out. Only been in the city two days: goes to-morrow.” “How interesting, Red! Where do you give it? At one of the clubs or hotels in town?” “That's the usual thing, of course. That's why I'm not going to do it. Grant's a rugged sort of commonsense chap--hates show and fuss. He gets an overpowering lot of being 'entertained' in precisely the conventional style. He's a pretty big gun now, and he can't escape. When I told him I was going to have him out for a plain dinner at home he looked as relieved as if I'd offered him a reprieve for some sentence.” “Undoubtedly he'll enjoy the relaxation. But you'll have a caterer out from town, I suppose?” “Not on your life. Cynthia can cook well enough for me, and I know Ronald Grant's tastes like a book. But what I want to ask is that you and Martha Macauley will come over and see that the table looks shipshape. Cynthia's a captain of the kitchen, but her ideas of table decoration are a trifle too original even for me. Miss Mathewson's away on her vacation. I'll send in some flowers. My silver and china are nothing remarkable, bur as long as the food's right that doesn't matter.” “I shall be delighted to do it for you, Red, as you know. So will Martha. We--”