She tried to withdraw, but the black spots were swimming before her, and to save herself from their engulfing her, as the shields and bracelets must have buried Tarpeia, sat suddenly erect, blinking and shaking her head. "Oh, I say now!" "Why, I--I'm all right--" His one arm was at her waist and with the other he was poking open the little trap door. "Stop at the corner." "No--please." "Yes, please." She closed her eyes, and almost immediately they drew up at a corner drug store adjoining a long row of brownstone fronts deep in brown studies. He helped her down, reading up at one of them. Dr. Barney Lee. "He leaves his name at the box office once in a while. Suppose you stop in here instead of the drug store. Don't like the idea of soda-fountain cures. You've a little sunstroke, I think." "No, no, Mr. Visigoth. Why, I've hardly ever had a doctor in my life! The--drug store will--" "One, two, three--march!" "Please!" "March! Got money? Good! I'll have a smoke in the cab. If he's not in, then I'll drive you around to our house doctor." He was in. But for ten minutes she sat in a leather-and-oak waiting room, beneath a fly-specked Rembrandt's "Night-Watch," a clock ticking spang into the gaslighted silence and the very chairs seeming to meditate as they stood. Then a pair of black-walnut doors slid back, and on a puff of iodoform Lilly passed between them and they clicked shut again. When she emerged Robert Visigoth's cigar was smoked two thirds its length and he was slumped down, with one knee hooked comfortably about the other. He sprang out to help her in. "Well?" Her smile was drawn across her face almost like a gash. "Tired waiting?" she said, holding her lips lifted. "Fix you up?" "You were right. A little sunstroke. A good night's rest will fix me up." "You've been playing 'possum." "That's it," she said, with the plating of hired gayety over her tones, but her nails printing little half moons into her palms. "Just for punishment, I'm going to drive you around the Park." "No, no, no! I don't feel quite up to it. He said rest--a good night's rest." He regarded her unmistakable pallor. "Oh, all right," sulkily, "you tantalizing enigma, you! Gad! you--you'd drive a man crazy! There's something over your face. A veil. I'd like to tear it off--" "You--you're talking like a Third Avenue melodrama." "I suppose I am," he said, subsiding and regarding the hooked top of his cane the remaining ten minutes of the drive. "I suppose I am." He dismissed the cab at her curb. To escape his arm she even ran up the steps, and to prove how complete recovery called down over one shoulder: "You've been kind and I'm grateful. Good night." "Prove it," he said, up and after her, his arm at her waist. "What?" she said, his meaning flashing as she spoke. She was crowding away from his nearness against one of the storm doors which folded back against the entrance, sooty light filtering over them through a frosted door panel.