"I'm not very old," she said hastily, in order to cover her confusion. "Only twenty-two. But it feels like a thousand." Her involuntary sigh was full of weariness. He patted her hand, as it idly crumbled the bread upon her plate. "Poor kid!" Then his eyes lighted daringly. "Don't you think you'd feel less aged if you wore a more youthful hat?" She looked at him in utter surprise. "Don't you like my hat?" Her tone was wistful. "Isn't it a trifle middle-aged?" he replied cautiously. "Your face is so small and pale, it sort of broods over it, like a hen sitting on an egg. Why don't you get yourself something flapperish with a little color in it?" Claire drew a puzzled breath. "Somehow I never thought that was my style. And color makes me look paler than ever." "That's easily remedied. Plenty of good food, fresh air, sleep, and no worry." Claire's smile was a trifle rueful. "Haven't I heard that prescription before, Dr. Elliott?" she inquired somewhat dryly. His brilliant teeth flashed out from out the dark face. "I'll admit it's a bromide. But just to prove I'm not an old fogey, I'll give you a prescription after lunch which will work wonders before your very eyes. No--it's not a flask." He laughed as her puzzled gaze rested upon his hip pocket. "Although I've been known to recommend that at times. And now, how about some ice-cream?" Claire shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no, I couldn't, Dr. Elliot. I feel like a Strassbourg goose, as it is." "About as crowded as the corner of Fifth Avenue and 42d Street? Well, I won't insist. You've been a pretty good little lady. But remember, no tea, no coffee, no chicken patties when I'm not around. Beefsteak, baked potatoes, spinach, etc. Is it a promise?" He held out a solemn hand across the table. "Yes," she placed her fingers in his somewhat timidly. "I promise. And now how about the prescription?" He released her and rising to his feet helped her on with her coat, a long, expensive moleskin, which accentuated the slight sallowness of her complexion. "Promise to take it, no matter how obnoxious?" he admonished, finger in the air. "Is it castor-oil?" Her smile was almost roguish. "No, I'm not as cold blooded as you think!" he replied with mock gravity. "Follow me down to the drug store and you'll see." Picking up Bébé, who had fed bountifully off the scraps, he led the way downstairs. The prescription was contained in a tiny red leather box. "Why, it looks like rouge!" exclaimed Claire in a horrified tone. "Some call it so," said the doctor gayly. "But it would smell as sweet under any other name." He sniffed at it appreciatively. "Come now," he continued, utterly regardless of the clerk's amused eyes. "Come over to the light and we will proceed with the operation. Shall I have to use an anæsthetic?" "But I've never done such a thing in my life!" protested Claire vigorously.