her for the moment in the business that had brought him there, and his hands and his natural kindness were at the mother's service.
"That's all right. Nothing to worry about."
He washed his hands again, and put on his coat, and stood for a moment by the bed.
"Some time yet, you know."
He was going, and the fair-haired girl, with a frightened whimper, turned in the bed.
"O, please,—stay."
Kit looked at her kindly.
"It may be three or four hours yet, and this is my second to-night."
"O, please don't go. I'm so frightened. Mary, tell him not to go."
Kit found himself in the doorway looking into the eyes of the messenger.
"Do stay. If you want to sleep—there's the sofa. I'll keep very quiet. And if you would like some tea"
Kit hesitated, his glance moving from her eyes to her mouth, and from her mouth to the little brown mole under her right eyelid.
"All right. I oughtn't to.—There might be another case."
"They can send for you. And aren't there other doctors?"
"Yes."
Her brown eyes seemed to swim with a light that puzzled him.
"Besides, if you went, they might send another doctor, and we'd rather have you."
There was a quietness in the bedroom, one of those pauses when nature rests from her labour; the mother-to-be had fallen asleep.
Kit sat on the sofa, Mary in an old armchair. A cup of tea stood on the table within reach of his hand.
"Why don't you go and lie down?"
She gave a little twist of the shoulders.
"Don't want to. Let's talk. We can talk softly."
Kit sipped his tea. This little flat in Orange Court and
