Chapter 8 - Page 2

Alan called at Harley Street immediately after breakfast, just a
quarter of an hour before the time allotted to his father's first
patient. Dr. Merrick received him in the consulting-room with an
interrogative raising of those straight, thin eyebrows. The mere
look on his face disconcerted Alan. With an effort the son began
and explained his errand. His father settled himself down into his
ample and dignified professional chair--old oak round-backed,--and
with head half turned, and hands folded in front of him, seemed to
diagnose with rapt attention this singular form of psychological
malady. When Alan paused for a second between his halting
sentences and floundered about in search of a more delicate way of
gliding over the thin ice, his father eyed him closely with those
keen, gray orbs, and after a moment's hesitation put in a "Well,
continue," without the faintest sign of any human emotion. Alan,
thus driven to it, admitted awkwardly bit by bit that he was
leaving London before the end of term because he had managed to get
himself into delicate relations with a lady.

Dr. Merrick twirled his thumbs, and in a colorless voice enquired,
without relaxing a muscle of his set face,

"What sort of lady, please? A lady of the ballet?"

"Oh, no!" Alan cried, giving a little start of horror. "Quite
different from that. A real lady."

"They always ARE real ladies,--for the most part brought down by
untoward circumstances," his father responded coldly. "As a rule,
indeed, I observe, they're clergyman's daughters."

"This one is," Alan answered, growing hot. "In point of fact, to
prevent your saying anything you might afterwards regret, I think
I'd better mention the lady's name. It's Miss Herminia Barton, the
Dean of Dunwich's daughter."

His father drew a long breath. The corners of the clear-cut mouth
dropped down for a second, and the straight, thin eyebrows were
momentarily elevated. But he gave no other overt sign of dismay or
astonishment.

"That makes a great difference, of course," he answered, after a
long pause. "She IS a lady, I admit. And she's been to Girton."

"She has," the son replied, scarcely knowing how to continue.

Dr. Merrick twirled his thumbs once more, with outward calm, for a
minute or two. This was most inconvenient in a professional
family.

"And I understand you to say," he went on in a pitiless voice,
"Miss Barton's state of health is such that you think it advisable
to remove her at once--for her confinement, to Italy?"

"Exactly so," Alan answered, gulping down his discomfort.

The father