"No, I do not mean Miss Cursiter."
"Do you mean—me then? Not me?"
"You, dear child? Never. To be plain—this is in confidence, Rhoda—I am speaking of Dr. Cautley."
"Dr. Cautley?"
"Yes. I do not know what I have done, or how I have offended him, but he has not been near me for over two months."
"Perhaps he has been busy—in fact, I know he has."
"He has always been busy. It is not that. It is something—well, I hardly care to speak of it, it has been so very painful. My dear"—Miss Quincey's voice sank to an awful whisper—"he has cut me in the street."
"Oh, I know—he will do it; he has done it to all his patients. He is so dreadfully absent-minded."
If Miss Quincey had not been as guileless as the little old maid she was, she would have recognised these indications of intimacy; as it was, she said with superior conviction, "My dear, I know Dr. Cautley. He has never cut me before, and he would not do it now without a reason. There has been some awful mistake. If I only knew what I had done!"
"You've done nothing. I wouldn't worry if I were you."