"I have thought you foolish ever since I first saw you," he responded, with one of his kindly smiles.
"I know; everybody does. I am fretting about the guitar. I don't know how to tell my poor boy that it is broken; and—worse still—I can't imagine how we shall get another."
"A man with a good little wife can exist without a guitar. You are at your old tricks—taking things too seriously."
"I daresay it seems so," I admitted, meekly. "But, do you believe in hereditary tendencies?"
"Humph! What of that?"
"Ronald's love of the guitar is hereditary. His aunt, Inez Greystock, is said to have been passionately attached to her guitar. She could not rest unless it was ever by her side: her hands were seeking for it always. It is the same with Ronald. When he finds that the thing is battered and useless, there will be something gone from his life. I can hardly hope to make you understand all that it has been to him."
"Humph," said the doctor again. "Suppose I say that it is quite possible to replace this precious guitar. Suppose I tell you that I know of one—a good one, too—that you can have for nothing. Will that comfort you, I wonder?"
"Comfort me! You are like a good magician!"
"A good magician is only a doctor practising under another name. Now listen. Give Ronald his breakfast in bed to-morrow, and then leave him hurriedly, pretending that you must do some shopping. Make your way, as fast as you can, to Soho Square; saunter up and down before the door of the great piano store, and wait till I come."
"I will do all that you tell me," I promised, gratefully.