"Now I'm in for it..." he said silently... "Oh! ... damn!" He put on his most truculent air.
The maid tapped at a door.
"Come in," said a sharp voice.
McTaggart entered and stood still for a moment, blinking on the threshold, irresolute.
For the scene was unexpected. Despite the heavy fog that filtered through the windows with its insidious breath, a hint of Spring was there in the fresh white walls, the rose-covered chintzes and the presence of flowers.
The place seemed filled with them. An early bough of blossom, the exquisite tender pink of the almond in bloom, stood against a mirror that screened a recess; and the air was alive with the scent of daffodils, with subtle yellow faces, like curious Chinamen, peering over the edge of a blue Nankin bowl.
In the centre of the room a man in a velvet coat was bending over a mass of fresh violets, adding water carefully to the surrounding moss out of a copper jug that he held in his hands.
McTaggart stared at him; at the lean, colourless face under its untidy thatch of coarse, gray hair; at the spare figure, the long, steady hands and the loose, unconventional clothes that he wore. He might have been an artist of Rossetti's day in that shabby brown coat and soft faded shirt. But the great specialist—whose name carried weight wherever science and medicine were wont to foregather. Had he made a mistake? It seemed incredible.
The doctor gave a parting touch to an overhanging leaf and wheeled round to greet his patient with a smile.
"I can't bear to see flowers die from lack of care, and this foggy weather tries them very hard. Excuse me a moment." He passed into the recess, and washed his hands vigorously, talking all the while.