Doctor Hallamar bent his leonine head with its mass of obstreperous hair low till his lips touched the Countess’s hand. Manifestly he was a man of power, the keen, resolute face was of the kind that makes one glad to think its indicative strength has taken up arms against our common enemy, disease.
“You are taking a holiday in England, Doctor,” Alexia enquired.
“Hardly.” The deep tones sounded in unison with the rest of the man’s heroic fibre. “My visit is professional primarily, but I hope to see something of England during my enforced stay; if not of its scenery, at least of its scientific side.”
“Doctor Hallamar means the hospitals,” the Count laughed. “He would rather see an interesting operation than the finest view in the world. You know the Doctor is the only man in Europe who can cure a certain form of disease.”
Hallamar smiled deprecatingly. “Let us say, treat it, Count. I fear I cannot often undertake to cure it.”
“Oh, you are modest, Doctor,” Alexia laughed. “And you have come over to attend a special case?”
Hallamar bowed assent. “A lady who has lost the use of her limbs through an accident. As a diplomatist’s sister, Countess, you will not expect me to say more.” He beamed inscrutably through his spectacles. “My mission may be a failure, and then the less we shall have said about it the better.”
“I can’t imagine you a failure, Doctor,” Alexia said, and truly, as her eyes rested with admiration on the strong, resourceful face.
Hallamar’s smile had a touch of regret now.
“I would, Countess, that your gracious words did not carry with them to me the sting of unintended satire.”