He was generally regarded as somewhat formidable,
this gruff, square-shouldered doctor, with his iron-grey hair and
black moustache, and keenly critical eyes. There was no varnish in his
curt speech, no dissimulation in any of his dealings. It was said
of him that he never sugared his pills. But his popularity was
wide-spread nevertheless. His help was sought in a thousand ways
outside his profession. To see his strong face melt into a smile was
like sunshine on a gloomy day, the village mothers declared.
But Daisy's gay effrontery did not manage to provoke it at that
moment.
"You have no business to take risks," he said. "How's the boy?"
Daisy sobered instantly. "His teeth have been worrying him rather
to-day. _Ayah_ is with him. I left her crooning him to sleep. Will you
go up?"
Jim Ratcliffe nodded and turned aside to the stairs. But he had not
reached the top when Muriel overtook him, moving more quickly than was
her wont.
"Let me come with you, doctor," she said.
He put his hand on her arm unceremoniously. "Miss Roscoe," he said, "I
have a message for you--from my scapegrace Olga. She wants to know
if you will play hockey in her team next Saturday. I have promised to
exert my influence--if I have any--on her behalf."
Muriel looked at him in semi-tragic dismay.
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