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THE DIAL JULY 1922
THE steamer was about to weigh anchor. Doctor Graesler, clad in a dark suit and an unbuttoned grey overcoat with a black arm-band on one sleeve, stood upon the deck. The hotel-director faced him bareheaded, his smooth-combed brown hair scarcely ruffled by the soft coast-breeze.
"My dear Doctor," the director remarked in that peculiar tone of condescension which had always affected Doctor Graesler so unpleasantly, "let me repeat that we are definitely counting on having you back again with us next season, in spite of the deplorable misfortune that has befallen you here."
Doctor Graesler did not reply. Misty-eyed, he looked across towards the shore of the island where the big hotel with its white window-shutters, closed tight to keep out the heat, glared in the dazzling sun. Then his gaze swept farther, over the sleepy yellowish houses and the dust-baked gardens sloping indolently upward, in the mid-day vapour, until they reached the scant old remains of stone and mortar that festooned the hills.
"Our guests," the director continued, "of whom a number will probably return next year, have come to esteem you, my dear Doctor, and so we confidently hope that, in spite of the sad memories it holds for you, you will again occupy the little villa"—he motioned towards a modest, bright cottage in the vicinity of the hotel—"the more so as you realize, of course, that we could not possibly put Number 43 at your disposal during the height of the season." And
