The specialist had been reviewing the photographs on the mantel-piece, and had displayed his good taste by electing a handsome cousin of Betty’s as his ideal for the moment. He set the silver frame down rather hurriedly, and turned at the sound of the door opening, a dapper, diplomatic, yet rather finicking figure, the figure more of a little man about town than of a brilliant and prosperous London consultant.
“Mrs. Steel—?”
He had glanced up with a slight puckering of the brows into Betty’s face.
“Yes. I am sorry my husband is out. I have taken the opportunity, Dr. Peterson, of consulting you—”
She moved towards the window, graceful, well poised, and unembarrassed. The specialist stood aside, his face a sympathetic blank, a birdlike and inquisitive alertness visible in his eyes.
“You have noticed my face, Dr. Peterson?”
She stood before him unflinchingly, a woman of distinction and of charm of manner despite her great disfigurement. The fingers of Dr. Peterson’s right hand were fidgeting with his watch-chain. It was wholly improper for a London consultant to appear embarrassed.
“You wish to consult me?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, elevated his eyebrows, and then met her with a conciliatory smile.