He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square with a clatter, giving a quick halloa: "Philip! Dear old chap!" Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand. "How are you?" he said. Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the mantelpiece, smiling down at him. "How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid. "All right. When did you come up?" "Yesterday afternoon." "Going to stay long?" "Only a day or two." "Pipe?" "Got a cigar; try one!" "Thanks." Corri pulled out a chair for himself. "Well, what's the news?" he said. "Nothing particular; anything fresh with you?" "No. How's your mother?" "Tolerably well; she came up with me." "Did she! Where are you?" "Some little hotel. I'm charged with a lot of messages----" "That you don't remember!" "I remember one of them: you're to come and see her." "Thanks, I shall." "Come and dine to-night, if you've nothing on. We have a room to ourselves, and----" "I'd like to. What are you going to do during the day?" "There are two or three things that won't take very long, but I was obliged to come. What are _you_ doing?" "I've an appointment outside at twelve; I shall be back in about an hour, and then I could stick a paper on the door without risking an independence." "You can go about with me?" "If you'll wait." "Good! Where do you keep your matches?" "Matches are luxuries. Tear up _The Times_!" "Corri's economy! Throw me _The Times_, then!" Kincaid lit his cigar to his satisfaction, and stretched his long legs before the fire. Both men puffed placidly. "Well," said Corri, "and how's the hospital? How do you like it?" "My mother doesn't like it; she finds it so lonely at home by herself. I thought she'd get used to it in a couple of months--I go round to her as often as I can--but she complains as much as she did at the beginning. She's taken up the original idea again, and of course it is dull for her. And she's not strong, either." "No, I know." "Tell her I'm going to be a successful man by-and-by, Wally, and cheer her up. It enlivens her to believe it." "I always do." "I know you do; whenever she's seen you, she looks at me proudly for a week and tells me what a 'charming young man' Mr. Corri is--'how clever!' The only fault she finds with you is that you haven't got married." "Tell her that I have what the novelists call an 'ideal.'" "When did you catch it?" "Last year. A fellow I know married the 'Baby'--an adoring daughter that thought all her family unique." "And----?" "My ideal is the blessing who is still unappropriated at twenty-eight. She'll have discovered by then that her mother isn't infallible; that her brothers aren't the first living authorities on wines, the fine arts, horseflesh, and the sciences; and that the 'happy home' isn't incapable of improvement. In fact, she'll have got a little tired of it." "You've the wisdom of a relieved widower."