He proffered this explanation with an easy courtesy, accompanied by a slight deprecating smile which admirably conveyed the regret of a well-bred man for having given trouble to strangers. It was difficult to reconcile his self-control with his previous extravagance downstairs. But to Colwyn it was apparent that his composure was simulated, the effort of a sensitive man who had betrayed a weakness to strangers, for the fingers which held a cigarette trembled slightly, and there were troubled shadows in the depths of the dark blue eyes. Colwyn admired the young man's pluck--he would wish to behave the same way himself in similar circumstances, he felt--and he realised that the best service he and Sir Henry Durwood could render their fellow guest was to leave him alone. But Sir Henry was far from regarding the matter in the same light. As a doctor he was more at home in other people's bedrooms than his own, for rumour whispered that Lady Durwood was so jealous of her husband's professional privileges as a fashionable ladies' physician that she was in the habit of administering strong doses of matrimonial truths to him every night at home. Sir Henry settled himself in his chair, adjusted his eye-glasses more firmly on his nose and regarded the young man standing by the mantelpiece with a bland professional smile, slightly dashed by the recollection that he was not receiving a fee for his visit. "You have made a good recovery, but you'll need care," he said. "Speaking as a professional man--I am Sir Henry Durwood--I think it would be better for you if you had somebody with you who understood your case. With your--er--complaint, it is very desirable that you should not be left to the mercy of strangers. I would advise, strongly advise you, to communicate with your friends. I shall be only too happy to do so on your behalf if you will give me their address. In the meantime--until they arrive--my advice to you is to rest." A look of annoyance flashed through the young man's eyes. He evidently resented the specialist's advice; indeed, his glance plainly revealed that he regarded it as a piece of gratuitous impertinence. He answered coldly: "Many thanks, Sir Henry, but I think I shall be able to look after myself." "That is not an uncommon feature of your complaint," said the specialist. An oracular shake of the head conveyed more than the words. "What do you imagine my complaint, as you term it, to be?" asked the young man curtly. Colwyn wondered whether even a fashionable physician, used to the freedom with which fashionable ladies discussed their ailments, would have the courage to tell a stranger that he regarded him as an epileptic. The matter was not put to the test--perhaps fortunately--for at that moment there was a sharp tap at the door, which opened to admit a chambermaid who seemed the last word in frills and smartness.