No patient ever
told the sad secrets of his body here. Here were no medical books, no
appliances for the writing of prescriptions, no hints of the profession
of the owner. Several pots of growing roses gravely shadowed forth the
doctor's fondness for flowers. A grand piano mutely spoke of his love
for music. Many of the books which lay about were novels; one, soberly
dressed in a vellum binding, being Ouida's "Dog of Flanders." All the
photographs which studded the silent chamber with a reflection of life
were photographs of children, except one. That was Valentine's. The
hearth, on which a fire flashed, was wide and had two mighty occupants,
Rupert and Mab, the doctor's mastiffs, who took their evening ease,
pillowing their huge heads upon each other's heaving bodies. The ticking
clock on the mantelpiece was an imitation of the Devil Clock of Master
Zacharius. There were no newspapers in the room. That fact alone made it
original. A large cage of sleeping canaries was covered with a cloth. The
room was long and rather narrow, the only door being at one end. On the
walls hung many pictures, some of them gifts from the artists. Some
foils lay on an ottoman in a far corner. The doctor fenced admirably,
and believed in the exercise as a tonic to the muscles and a splendid
drill-sergeant to the eyes.
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