the other sides. Birdie Bolton's bedroom and boudoir looked to the south, and were on the ground floor. On the north of the house is the approach from the high road, a curling drive through a shrubbery. Birdie Bolton's rooms looked out upon a rose-bed and a big lawn. About her windows climbed a big Gloire de Dijon. The roses beneath were of the newer hybrid teas, well cultivated, well chosen, and at their best—a fragrant pomp of red and gold. "How she loved 'em, poor soul," Reggie thought, and began to feel sentimental. That singular emotion was interrupted by the sound of a motor-car. He went back to the front of the house to meet it.
A big car was drawing up. It contained two people—a uniformed chauffeur and a large young man who jumped out, rather clumsily, before the car stopped. He had the good looks of a hero of musical comedy, but an expression rather sheepish than fatuous, and a pallid complexion.
"I think you are Mr. Ford." Reggie came close to him. "I am Dr. Fortune. Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I hardly expected to see you so soon."
"Miss Weston sent for me, sir." Mr. Ford recoiled, for Reggie's face was very close to his.
"Did she, though!" Reggie murmured. "Did she really?" Miss Weston had forgotten to tell him that. Pussy-cat!
