of antique furniture.
She smiled when he talked of going up to Scotland, for grouse
shooting, or of snatching an hour on Sunday morning, for golf. And
she talked him over, with quiet, delicate malice, with the matron.
He was no favourite at the hospital.

Gradually Dr. Mitchell's manner changed towards her. From his
imperious condescension he took to a tone of uneasy equality. This
did not suit him. Dr. Mitchell had no equals: he had only the vast
stratum of inferiors, towards whom he exercised his quite profitable
beneficence--it brought him in about two thousand a year: and then
his superiors, people who had been born with money. It was the
tradesmen and professionals who had started at the bottom and
clambered to the motor-car footing, who distressed him. And
therefore, whilst he treated Alvina on this uneasy tradesman
footing, he felt himself in a false position.

She kept her attitude of quiet amusement, and little by little he
sank. From being a lofty creature soaring over her head, he was now
like a big fish poking its nose above water and making eyes at her.
He treated her with rather presuming deference.

"You look tired this morning," he barked at her one hot day.

"I think it's thunder," she said.

"Thunder! Work, you mean," and he gave a slight smile. "I'm going to
drive you back."

"Oh no, thanks, don't trouble! I've got to call on the way."

"Where have you got to call?"

She told him.

"Very well. That takes you no more than five minutes. I'll wait for
you. Now take your cloak."

She was surprised. Yet, like other women, she submitted.

As they drove he saw a man with a barrow of cucumbers. He stopped
the car and leaned towards the man.

"Take that barrow-load of poison and _bury_ it!" he shouted, in his
strong voice. The busy street hesitated.

"What's that, mister?" replied the mystified hawker.

Dr. Mitchell pointed to the green pile of cucumbers.

"Take that barrow-load of poison, and bury it," he called, "before
you do anybody any more harm with it."

"What barrow-load of poison's that?" asked the hawker, approaching.
A crowd began to gather.

"What barrow-load of poison is that!" repeated the doctor. "Why your
barrow-load of cucumbers."

"Oh," said the man, scrutinizing his cucumbers carefully. To be
sure, some were a little yellow at the end. "How's that? Cumbers is
right enough: fresh from market this morning."

"Fresh or not fresh," said the doctor, mouthing his words
d