There was a general conviction in Strorley that the new Mrs. Wemyss must have been a barmaid, a typist, or a nursery governess,--was, that is, either very bold, very poor, or very meek. Else how could she have married Wemyss? And this conviction had reached and infected even the doctor, who was a busy man off whom gossip usually slid. When, however, he saw Miss Entwhistle he at once was sure that there was nothing in it. This wasn't the aunt of either the bold, the poor, or the meek; this was just a decent gentlewoman. He shook hands with her, really pleased to see her. Everybody was always pleased to see Miss Entwhistle, except Wemyss. 'Nothing serious, I hope?' asked the doctor. Miss Entwhistle said she didn't think there was, but that her nephew---- 'You mean Mr. Wemyss?' She bowed her head. She did mean Mr. Wemyss. Her nephew. Her nephew, that is, by marriage. 'Quite,' said the doctor. Her nephew naturally wanted his wife to go up and join him in London. 'Naturally,' said the doctor. And she wanted to know when she would be fit to go. 'Then let us go upstairs and I'll tell you,' said the doctor. This was a very pleasant little lady, he thought as he followed her up the well-known stairs, to have become related to Wemyss immediately on the top of all that affair. Now he would have said himself that after such a ghastly thing as that most women---- But here they arrived in the bedroom and his sentence remained unfinished, because on seeing the small head on the pillow of the treble bed he thought, 'Why, he's married a child. What an extraordinary thing.' 'How old is she?' he asked Miss Entwhistle, for Lucy was still uneasily sleeping; and when she told him he was surprised. 'It's because she's out of proportion to the bed,' explained Miss Entwhistle in a whisper. 'She doesn't usually look so inconspicuous.' The whispering and being looked at woke Lucy, and the doctor sat down beside her and got to business. The result was what Miss Entwhistle expected: she had a very violent feverish cold, which might turn into anything if she were not kept in bed. If she were, and with proper looking after, she would be all right in a few days. He laughed at the idea of London. 'How did you come to get such a violent chill?' he asked Lucy. 'I don't--know,' she answered. 'Well, don't talk,' he said, laying her hand down on the quilt--he had been holding it while his sharp eyes watched her--and giving it a brief pat of farewell. 'Just lie there and get better. I'll send something for your throat, and I'll look in again to-morrow.' Miss Entwhistle went downstairs with him feeling as if she had buckled him on as a shield, and would be able, clad in such armour, to face anything Everard might say. 'She likes that room?' he asked abruptly, pausing a moment in the hall. 'I can't quite make out,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'We haven't had any talk at all yet. It was from that window, wasn't it, that----?' 'No. The one above;'