“She took her oath that she’d never mentioned you to him, you nor your visitors, only Dr. Kennedy who attends you. But I’d not believe her oath. A hat with feathers she had on, and a ring on her finger when she went out with him. Such goings-on are not fit for a respectable Christian house, and so I told her.” Margaret listened inattentively, and irritably. She did not want ever to think again of that shabby man or her own unreasoned fears. She bade the maid be silent, attend to her duties. Stevens sniffed and grumbled under her breath. Afterwards she asked if the doctor were coming up again this morning. “Why?” “He might want to sound you. You’d best have your Valenciennes slip.” “Don’t be so absurd.” Nevertheless the query set her thinking of Peter Kennedy and his love for her. Desultory thinking connects itself naturally with a leisurely toilette. She was sorry for Peter and composed phrases for him, comforting noncommittal phrases. She thought it would do him good to get to London, his ideas wanted expanding, his provincialisms brushed off. She was under the impression she would do great things for Peter one day, let him into her circle; that salon she and Gabriel would hold. Her father should consult him, she would help him to build up a practice. When he came up, later on, she told him something of her good intentions. They did not interest him very much, it was not service he wanted from her. He heard her night had been good, that she felt rested and better this morning. He had not been told what had disturbed the last one. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, doctor and patient, when the parlourmaid came in with a card. Margaret looked at it and laughed, passed it over to him. “That’s Anne,” she said. “Anne evidently thinks I am a hopeful subject.” The card bore the name of “Mrs. Roope, Christian Healer.” “Stay and see her with me,” she said to Peter. “It will be almost like a consultation, won’t it?... Yes,” she told the parlourmaid, “I will see the lady. Let her come up. Now, Peter Kennedy, is opportunity to show your quality, your tact. I expect to be amused, I want to be amused.” Peter was not loath to stay, whatever the excuse. Mrs. Roope, tall, and dressed something like a hospital nurse, in long flowing cloak and bonnet with veil, was ushered in, but delayed a little in her greeting, because that hysterical affection of the throat of which Anne had spoken, caught and held her, and at first she could only make uncanny noises, something between a hiccough and a bad stammer. “I’ve come to see you,” she said not once but several times without getting any further. “Sit down,” Margaret said good-naturedly. “This is my doctor. I would suggest you ask him to cure your affliction, only I understand you prefer your own methods.” “There is nothing the matter with me,” said the Christian Scientist with an unavoidable contortion. “So I see,” said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with humour.