It was in March of the next year, as she sat at her neat desk in the little room they had made into an office when they created a sun parlour out of the side verandah, that Delia, responsible head of three maids now, ushered a gentleman in to her.
"The doctor, Miss Merry, that came yesterday about the rooms for his patient in the cottage," said Delia softly. "I can't seem to get the name, ma'am."
"Very well," said Miss Mary and rose, plumper by eight or ten pounds than she had been, dignified in black broadcloth, only enough of reserve and weighing of her words about her to mark her off slightly from the most of her sex and business.
"Miss Merry? I am Dr. Stanchon, I have been recommended most strongly——"
She swayed before him, then sank into her chair, grasping the arms. He looked courteously alarmed, stared, stared again, then snatched her hand.
"It's not—it can't be—why, Miss Mary!" She gasped and trembled. The year dropped off from her like a loosened cloak.
"Oh, Dr. Stanchon, don't, don't tell him!" she moaned.
"Him? him?" he repeated. "Why, Miss Mary, were you here all the time? And your hair—you were ill?"
"It used to be coloured—you never knew," she murmured. "I mean Dr.—Dr. Jarvyse."