CHAPTER XVII
Parker Steel was compiling his list of visits for the day, when, following the sharp “burr” of the electric bell, came the announcement that Mrs. Murchison, of Lombard Street, waited to see him in the drawing-room. A momentary cloud of annoyance passed over the physician’s sleek and shallow face. Few men care to appear ungenerous in the eyes of a woman, and Parker Steel was not devoid of the passion for indiscriminate popularity. The craving to appear excellent in the eyes of others is a more potent power for the polishing of man’s character than the dogmatics of a state religion, and Mrs. Betty’s husband purred like a cat about the silk skirts of society. Man for man, he could have dealt with Murchison on hard and scientific lines, but with a woman the logic of unsympathetic facts could be consumed by the lava flow of the more passionate privileges of the heart.
He continued scribbling at his desk, mentally considering the attitude he should assume, and hesitating between an air of infinite regret and a calm assumption of stoical responsibility. The door opened on him as he still studied his part. Mrs. Betty stood on the threshold, eyes a-glitter, an eager frown on her pale face.
She closed the door and approached her husband, leaning the palms of her hands on the edge of the table.
“Well, Parker, are you prepared with sal-volatile and a dozen handkerchiefs?”
Steel looked uneasy, a betrayal of weakness that his wife’s sharp eyes did not disregard.
“I suppose I must see the woman,” and he fastened the elastic band about his visiting-book with an irritable snap.
“See her? By all means, unless you are afraid of needing a tear bottle.”
“Perhaps you would prefer to interview—”
A flash of malicious amusement beaconed out from his wife’s eyes.