McTaggart stared at him; at the lean, colourless face under its untidy thatch of coarse, gray hair; at the spare figure, the long, steady hands and the loose, unconventional clothes that he wore. He might have been an artist of Rossetti's day in that shabby brown coat and soft faded shirt. But the great specialist--whose name carried weight wherever science and medicine were wont to foregather. Had he made a mistake? It seemed incredible. The doctor gave a parting touch to an overhanging leaf and wheeled round to greet his patient with a smile. "I can't bear to see flowers die from lack of care, and this foggy weather tries them very hard. Excuse me a moment." He passed into the recess, and washed his hands vigorously, talking all the while. "Some years ago," he switched off the tap, "I went to a public dinner of agriculturists. Found to my surprise I was sitting next Oscar Wilde--one doesn't somehow associate him with such a function! On my left was a farmer of the good old-fashioned type, silent, aggressive, absorbed in his food. I happened to remark that the flowers were all withered; the heat of the room had been too much for them. "'Not withered'--Wilde corrected me--'but merely _weary_...' "The farmer turned his head, and gave him one glance. "'Silly Ass!' he said explosively and returned to his dinner. It was his single contribution to the evening's conversation. I've never forgotten it, nor the look on Wilde's face." McTaggart laughed. He felt oddly at ease. The doctor glanced at his nails and came back into the room. He pushed an easy-chair toward his patient and leaning against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pocket: "Now, tell me all the trouble," he suggested quietly. A slight flush crept up under the olive skin. McTaggart was suddenly immensely ashamed. "I don't believe really ... there's anything ... wrong..." He gave an apologetic, husky little laugh ... "but the fact is, a friend of mine--he's a medical student--ran over me the other day, and, well--he said--there was something odd--that he couldn't understand--something about the beat of my heart. I'd fainted, you know--awfully inconvenient--at a supper party, too ... I'd been feeling pretty cheap..." He broke off, confused, as for the first time the older man deliberately fixed his eyes upon him. Hazel eyes they were with curious flecks of yellow, bright and hard beneath his pince-nez. "You fainted? For how long were you unconscious?" He added a few more questions, nodded his shaggy head, and crossing the room sat down at his desk. He opened a book, massively bound, where on each page was printed, hideous and suggestive, an anatomical sketch of the human form divine. "I'd like your name in full." He picked up the card which McTaggart had sent in by the parlour maid. "P. M. McTaggart--what does that stand for?" "It's rather a mouthful." The owner smiled. "Peter Maramonte." The specialist glanced up shrewdly.