“The men we flirt with, dear, are not often the men we marry.”
Meanwhile, Dr. Little had descended the stairs, looking as serious as any middle aged demi-god who had been snubbed by a school-girl. He crossed the hall to Parker Steel’s consulting-room, took out a bottle containing tabloids of perchloride of mercury from the cabinet, dissolved two in the basin fixed in one corner of the room, and sedulously and carefully disinfected his hands.
“How the devil—!”
This meditative exclamation appeared to limit the gentleman’s reflections for the moment. He stood with bent shoulders, staring at his hands soaking in the rose-tinted water, like some mediæval wiseacre striving to foresee the future in a pot of ink.
CHAPTER XXXVI
The glitter of the sea visible between the foliage of flowering-shrubs seemed to add a touch of vivacity to the June somnolence that hung like a summer mist over the south-coast town. Parker Steel, half lying in a basket-chair under a red May-tree in the hotel garden, betrayed his sympathy with the poetical paraphernalia of life by reading through a list of investments recommended by his brokers. A satisfactory breakfast followed by the contemplation of a satisfactory banking account begets peace in the heart of man.
It was about ten o’clock, and a few enthusiasts were already quarrelling over croquet, when the hotel “buttons” came out with a telegram on a tray.
“No. 25, Dr. Steel?”
“Here.”
“Any reply, sir?”