“Dr. Peterson, ma’am.”
“From Major Murray’s?”
“Yes, ma’am; wants to see the master, most particular.”
“Dr. Steel’s not in?”
“No, ma’am, but he left word that he would be at home about four.”
“Thanks, Symons, you can go.”
The servant’s ill-conditioned stare was bitterness to a woman of Betty’s pride and penetration. The finer touches of courtesy, the more delicate instincts, are rarely developed in the lower classes. Even the starched Symons was utterly cowlike in her manners. Betty felt her face sore under the servant’s eyes.
A big red book lay open upon the dressing-table amid Betty Steel’s crowd of silver knick-knacks. It was the Medical Directory, and lay open at the London list, and at the letter P. Dr. Peterson’s name headed the left-hand page, as staff-physician to sundry hospitals and charitable institutions, and as a holder of medals, diplomas, and degrees galore. A cursory glance at the titles of his contributions to medical literature would have marked him out as one of the leading authorities on diseases of the skin.
Betty Steel looked in her pier-glass, fluffed out her hair a little, and fastening the scarf of her green tea-gown, crossed the landing towards the stairs. She had that steady and almost staring expression of the eyes that betrays a purpose suddenly but seriously matured. She had not spoken with her husband since their meeting on the night of his return.
“Dr. Peterson, I believe?”