“General Practitioner,” Pawley explained. “With a few letters after his name that some Harley Street men haven’t got. Now, my dear, I tried to help you the other day. Will you help me?”
“Why, of course.” She gazed at him affectionately. “Mother will be down in two jiffs. You caught her napping. Sunday luncheon. How can I help you?”
“I have asked Mr. Grimshaw to become my partner.”
“I know. And I think it’s perfectly splendid.”
“But alas! he’s not very keen about it.”
Cicely raised her brows. Grimshaw wondered whether she was obstinate, catching a glimpse of the Chandos chin, salient but with a dimple mitigating its contour. He could see that she was surveying him from tip to toe with the well-bred self-possession of her class, evidently mildly astonished that he did not jump eagerly into such a picturesque village as Upworthy. She said simply:
“There’s plenty of work for two, isn’t there, Dr. Pawley?”
Grimshaw laughed, although he answered seriously.
“That’s it. You see, there oughtn’t to be.”
At this her expression became interrogative. Pawley interposed hastily: