exceptions.

The room was larger and higher than most bedrooms in New York, but it was simply furnished, and there was very little which could be properly considered as ornamental. Everything which was of wood was of white pear, and the curtains were of plain white velvet, without trimmings. Such metal work as was visible was of steel. There was a large white Persian carpet in the middle of the room, and two or three skins of Persian sheep served for rugs. Robert Lauderdale loved light and whiteness, a strange fancy for so old a man; but the room was in harmony with his personality, and, to some extent, with his appearance. The colour was all gone from his face, his blue eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow, but his hair, once red, looked sandy by contrast with the snow-white stuffs, and his beard had beautiful, pale, smoke-coloured shadows in it, like clouded meerschaum. It was not surprising that Routh should have believed him, and believed him still, to be in very great danger. Nevertheless, there was strength in him yet, and if he recovered he might last a few years longer. He breathed rather painfully, and moved uneasily from time to time, as though trying to find a position in which he could draw breath with less effort. Routh sat motionless by his bedside in the white stillness.

“What’s the name of that fellow who’s written a book?” asked the sick man, suddenly.

“What book?” enquired the doctor.

“Novel—about the social question—don’t you know? There’s an old chap in it who has money—something like me.”

“Oh! I know. Griggs—that’s the man’s name.”

“What is Griggs, anyway?” asked Robert Lauderdale, in the hoarse growl which served him for a voice at present.

“Griggs? He’s what they call a man of letters, or a literary man, or a novelist, or a genius, or a humbug. I’ve always known him a little, though he’s younger than I am. The only good thing I know about him is that he works hard. Now don’t talk. It isn’t good for you.”

“Well—you talk, then. I’ll listen,” grumbled old Lauderdale.

Thereupon both relapsed into silence, Doctor Routh being one of those people who cannot make conversation to order. Indeed, he was a taciturn man at most times. Lauderdale watched him, coughed a little and turned uneasily, but made a sign to him that he wanted no help.

“Why don’t you talk?” he enquired, at last.

“About Griggs? I haven’t read but one or two of his books. I don’t know what to say about him.”

“Do you think he’s a dangerous friend for a young girl, Routh?”

“Griggs?” Routh laughed in his grey beard. “Hardly! He’s as ugly as a camel, to begin with—and he’s getting on. Griggs—why, Griggs must be fifty, at least. Did you never see him? He’s been about all the spring—came back from the Caucasus in January or February. What put it into your head that he would be a dangerous acquaintance for a young woman?”

“I don’t mean his looks—I mean his ideas.”

“Stuff!” ejaculated Doctor Routh. “He’s only got the modern mania for psychology. What harm can that do?”

“Is that all? Alexander’s an ass.”

Robert Lauderdale turned his head away as though he had settled the question which had tormented him. Again there was a silence in the room. The doctor looked at his patient with a rather inscrutable expression, then took out his watch, replaced it, and consulted his pocket-book. At last he rose and walked toward the window noiselessly on the thick, white carpet.

“I shall have to be going,” he said. “I’ve got a consultation. Cheever’s downstairs.”

Doctor Cheever was Doctor Routh’s assistant, who did not leave the house during Mr. Lauderdale’s illness.

“And you can send away the undertaker, if he’s waiting,” growled the sick man, with an attempt at a laugh. “I say—can I see people, if they call? I suppose my nephews and nieces will be here before long.”

“It’s no use to tell you what to do. You’ll do just what you please, anyway. Professionally, I tell you to keep quiet, not to talk, and to sleep if you can. You’re not like other people,” added Routh, thoughtfully.

“Why not?”

“Most men in your position are badly scared when it comes to going out. The efforts they make to save themselves sometimes kill them. You seem rather indifferent about it. Yet you have a good deal to leave behind you.”

“H’m—I’ve had it all—and a long time. But I want to see Katharine Lauderdale, if she comes.”

“I’ll send for her if it’s anything important,” said Doctor Routh, promptly.

The sick man looked quickly at him. It seemed as though his readiness to send for Katharine implied some doubts as to his patient’s safety.

“I don’t believe I’m going to die,” he said, slowly. “What are my chances, Routh? It’s your duty to tell me, if you know.”

“I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. You’re a very sick man—and they’ll all want to see you, of course. I—well, I don’t mean to say anything disagreeable about them. On the contrary—it is natural that they should take an interest—”

“Devilish natural,” answered old Lauderdale, with the noise that represented a laugh. “But I want to see Katharine.”

“Very well. Then see her. But don’t talk too much. That’s one reason why I’m going now. You can’t keep quiet for five minutes while I’m in the room. Good-bye. I’ll be back in the afternoon, sometime. If you feel any worse, send for me. Cheever will come and look at you now and then—he won’t talk, and he’ll call me up at my telephone station, if I’m wanted.”

“Well—if you think it’s touch and go, send for Katharine—I mean Katharine Lauderdale, not Katharine Ralston. If you think I’m all right, then leave her alone. She’s not the kind to come of her own accord.”

“All right.”

Doctor Routh held his old friend’s hand for a moment, and then went away. He exchanged a few words with the nurse, who sat reading in the next room, and then slowly descended the stairs. He was considering and weighing the chances of life and death, and trying to make up his mind as to whether he should send for Robert Lauderdale’s grand-niece or not. It was rather a difficult question to solve, for he knew that if Katharine appeared, the sick man would take her coming for a sign that his condition was desperate, and the impression might do him harm. On the other hand, though he was so strong and believed so firmly that he was to live, there was more than a possibility that he might die that night. With old people, the heart sometimes fails very suddenly. And Routh could not tell but that his patient’s wish to see the girl might proceed from some intention on his part which should produce a permanent effect upon her welfare. It would be very hard on her not to send for her, if her appearance in the sick-room were to be of any advantage to her in future.

It was natural enough that he should ultimately decide the matter in Katharine’s favour, for he liked her and Mrs. Ralston best of all the family, next to old Robert himself. Before he left the house he went into the library, which was on the ground floor, to speak with his assistant, Doctor Cheever, whom he had not yet seen, and who had spent the night in the house. The latter gave him an account of the patient’s condition during the last twelve hours, which recalled at once the discouragement Doctor Routh had at first felt that morning. Once out of the old man’s presence, the personal impression of his strength was less vivid, and the danger seemed to be proportionately magnified, even in the mind of such an experienced physician. Doctor Routh had also more than once experienced the painful consequences of having omitted, out