“Bless my soul, I remember you now!” he said. He was one of the loud and jovial race of doctors that is fast dying out. “I remember you very well. You used to be a friend of the Dawlishes, didn’t you? Poor old Donald! What a good sort! Now let me look at this leg of yours.” He examined the wound, which was little more than a scar, and, to Greta’s dismay, pronounced her fit to travel. “You’ll have to take care of yourself for a week or two,” he said conventionally, and returned to the topic his examination had interrupted. “Yes. I was with old Donald two days before he died, from morning till night, hoping against hope that I could do something for him. For twenty-four hours I never stirred from his side. Poor old Donald! He died six hours after I left him, with my dear friend, Sir Paul Grayley, one of the best doctors that ever lived.” Old Dr. Wesley was blessed with this disposition, that all the people he knew were the best people that ever lived, and all who were bereft of his acquaintance came under the generic heading of “poor souls.” “Very bad business about his boy, poor soul!” He shook his hoary head. “Terribly bad business. I didn’t know Peter personally--never met him. But when I heard of this fearful thing he’d done, I said to myself, ‘My boy, if the news has to be broken to Donald you’re the man to do it.’” He was very talkative, very delightful, very human, but Greta was annoyed with him and gave him little encouragement to stay. As for the woman standing in the darkness of the bedroom, had her wishes materialized, old Doctor Wesley would have been swept from the face of the earth. Presently he was gone, and she came out from her listening post. “Apparently you can move without dying,” she said sarcastically. “Apparently I can, if I want to move.” Greta’s voice was husky. She was back in her last trench, conscious of a great shortage of ammunition. “And I don’t want to move, and that’s flat! I can’t understand why you hate that dear old man. I admit he’s fearfully chatty, but that’s no reason why you should throw a fit at the mention of his name.” “When I want your opinion about my peculiarities I will ask you for it,” bullied Anita, and it was a wrong move, as she realized. Mrs. Gurden shrugged her shoulders rapidly. “If that’s the tone you’re going to adopt,” she said, with an heroic assumption of boldness, “the sooner we part the better, Anita. You’ve stopped the paper, but I think I’m entitled to some money instead of notice; and if it comes to that, I’ve had no salary for a month. And as to going down to your beastly old Towers, I simply won’t, so there!” The princess forced a smile. “My dear Greta, you’re getting theatrical. But I realize you’re not quite yourself. Now don’t be a little fool. Come and rest with me for a week or two. There are one or two big schemes I want to talk over with you, and afterward we’ll pack up and go to Capri or Monte Carlo or somewhere’s a little more cheerful than Wimbledon.”