She felt, too, that his scrutiny was not entirely that of the physician. She sensed the man in it. Had she also been aware that he was admiring her—a circumstance of which his impassive face gave no indication—and that he was pleasantly surprised to find her free from a weakness common to the general run of De Freyne’s beauties, her perturbation would have been greater than it was. "The trouble with you," he said with friendly intent, "is mainly want of proper nourishment. Please forgive the question, but—are you hard up?" "No, not at present. At least, not very. I was rather, before I went back to the Pall Mall." "Back? You were there before?" "Yes." He seemed to be thinking. "Are you in the chorus?" "I used to be. Now I have a small part." "But not much in the way of salary?" "Thirty-five shillings a week. But I have forty pounds a year of my own besides. I should be quite reasonably well off if it were not for the many little things I have to find for the theater. I ought not to complain. There are thousands of girls far worse off than I am." "And you live—where?" He made a note of the address. "Your appetite?" was the next question. "For instance, what did you have for breakfast this morning?" "Tea, and bread and butter ... and there was an egg." "The usual sort of egg?" he augmented cynically. "A little more than usual," she replied with a faint smile. "I see. And I suppose you will have lunch at a bunshop?" "Yes. Please don’t look so prejudiced. Some bunshops are quite satisfying places. One sees plenty of men there as well as women." "That’s so. Anæmic clerks who should be eating a good midday meal to make up for an indifferent supper at night, and girls who need meat contenting themselves with coffee and a roll, or perhaps pastry! Now I’m going to write you a prescription. Mind you get it made up and take it. Let me see you again three days from now. If you don’t come I shall visit you. Seriously, you need to take care of yourself." He stopped the protest that rose to her lips, gave her the prescription, and, again impressing on her the necessity of coming to report progress, let her go. Why he, who had never previously felt any hankering after an actress, should want to see more of a stray girl, and one of De Freyne’s at that, was more than he could explain to himself. Alexandra kept the appointment and several others after it. Her first shyness vanished. Meer disguised his personal interest in her because he wanted to benefit her professionally. Not until he had practically cured her throat trouble did he give her any indication of his real feelings. "I think you’ll be all right now if you take care of yourself," he told her one morning. "I’ve given you a lot of trouble," she rejoined gratefully. She placed two guineas on a side table. He picked up the coins and handed them back to her. "Certainly not." "But—please? You can’t do it for nothing."