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The time passed slowly and heavily to Mr. Warden during Lord Hardcastle's absence. The Docteur Lemoine arrived in due course, the ribbon of the Legion of Honour fastened in his buttonhole, and a general air of got-up-for-the-occasion about him. It was not often, indeed, that he had a patient of Mr. Warden's standing to attend. His experiences, as a rule, were limited to the dying beds of the simple peasantry about him, for it is not often that a Cevenol mountaineer calls in the aid of a doctor -- rarely, indeed, until the patient is beyond the hope of recovery.
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Warden, and was proceeding to ask him a multitude of questions, when the latter stopped him. "My friend," he said, "I shall be your patient for such a very short time that it is really not worth while for you to take a great deal of trouble about me. My disease is mental, not bodily, and what I most require is rest and quiet. What you want to know you must find out from your own observation, and I will promise to take any remedy you may prescribe."