"Boor!" he said to himself, "she's starving, and you wouldn't buy her book. Beast! she's starving, and you tried to turn her out." But his sympathy was hardly communicated by his voice; indeed, in her shame she thought him rather rough. "You stop here a minute," he continued; "don't you go and faint again, because I forbid it! I'm going to order a prescription for you. Your complaint isn't incurable--I've had it myself." He left her in quest of the housekeeper, whom he interrogated on the subject of eggs and coffee. A shilling brightened her wits. "Mr. Corri's room; hurry!" His patient was sitting in the arm-chair when he went back; he saw tear-stains on her cheek, though she turned away her face at his approach. "The prescription's being made up," he said. "Would you like the window shut again? No? All right, we'll keep it open. Don't talk if you'd rather not; there's no need--I know all you want to say." He ignored her ostentatiously till the tray appeared, and then, receiving it at the doorway, brought it over to her himself. "Come," he said, "try that--slowly." "Oh!" she murmured, shrinking. "Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; I know you're not an angel--your having an appetite doesn't astonish me." "How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?" "Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards." She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had looked for--his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone. "It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now." He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a quarter of an hour he put _The Times_ down. The eggshells were empty, and he stretched himself and addressed her: "Better?" "Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile. "Have you been having a long experience of this sort of thing?" "N--no," she returned nervously, "not very." He caressed his moustache; she was ceasing to be a patient and becoming a woman, and he didn't quite know what he was to do with her. Somehow, despite her situation, the offer of a sovereign looked as if it would be coarse. Mary divined his dilemma, and made as if to rise. "Sit down," he said authoritatively. "When you're well enough to go I'll tell you; till I do, stay where you are!" She felt that she ought to say something, proffer some explanation, but she was at a loss how to begin. There was a pause. And then: "Is there any likelihood of this business of yours improving?" inquired Kincaid. "Suppose you were able to hold out--is there anything to look forward to?" "No," she said; "I don't think there is. I'm afraid I am no use at it." "Was it an attractive career, that you made the attempt?" "Not in the least; but it was a chance." "I see!"