"Please!" she said again, with all her cajolery. "Please, doctor! Just get him to come down and speak to me through the door—just for an instant!"
He hesitated.
"I want to do anything I can for you——”
"And wouldn’t you please just pay that cab?" she said. "I’m afraid he’ll wait till you do."
He had a little money on hand, as it happened, and he was proud to be able to play so gallant a rôle.
"With pleasure!" he said. "But then won’t you agree to postpone your talk with Vincent?"
"I can’t!" she cried, piteously. "Oh, do please get him down!"
"Very well," he said, with a sigh and a smile.
She waited patiently, close to the screen. Everything was quiet. The waiting chauffeur had shut off his engine and sat on the step of his cab, smoking. Far away, from some other house, came the thumping rhythm of a piano-player, and quite close to her the busy chirping of little nocturnal insects.
Before very long, Vincent’s heavy tread sounded on the stairs. His big body loomed up in the dim light of the hall, and drew near to her; but he did not unlock the door. She suppressed a smile. He was afraid of her—that big, masterful poet, forever proclaiming himself a man!