"No, my dear," said the doctor, very decidedly, "you will only make matters worse. Ferdy, for the last twelve months, has been out of leading strings, and if you try, however delicately, to lecture him, he will only become obstreperous. But you need not be alarmed. I'll do what I can. I would do much for you, Clarice."
There was a note in his voice which made the girl look up. The usually pale face of the doctor was red, and his eyes had a look in them, which she was woman enough to understand. Rising with a nervous laugh, Clarice grappled with the situation at once. She did not wish to lose her amiable companion in a disappointed suitor. "Do what you can for Ferdy, doctor, and I'll ever be your--friend."
"But suppose I--"
"Friend, doctor," reiterated Clarice, steadily, and withdrew the hand he had clasped too warmly. "I wonder," stammered the medical man, nervously, "if you understand exactly what I mean." Clarice smiled. "I should not be a woman else. I understand, and so I say--friend."
"There is someone else?" asked Jerce, chagrined. Clarice turned the leading question with an embarrassing laugh. "There is always someone else, and in this instance the someone else, is my brother Ferdinand. I rely on you to bring him to his senses."
"Well," said Jerce, struggling back to calmness, "that may be difficult. You see, Miss Baird--"
"Clarice."
"No," said Jerce, steadily, "never again, until I have the right to call you Clarice."
"What right? No, no! that's a foolish question," she added hurriedly. "Doctor, doctor, do not put your feelings into words. Let things remain as they are. Help Ferdy and cure Uncle Henry, and then--"
"And then?" he bent forward eagerly.