“I haven’t got a horse,” protested Callandar feebly.

“But of course you’ll be getting one.  A doctor has to have a horse.  If you can’t pay for it down, Mark knows some one who’d let you have a good one on time.  You can trust Mark, if he is mournful.  Of course I don’t say that these rooms are the only rooms to let in Coombe, but I do think they’re about as good as you can get—­being so near to Dr. Coombe’s old house.  People get used to coming for a doctor down this street.”

“But that was, over a year ago.”

“It takes more ’an a year for Coombe folks to change their ways.  Only this day week I saw Bill Brooks tearing down this way on account of Mrs. Brooks’ being took kind of unexpected, and Bill losing his head and forgetting all about Dr. Coombe being dead and Dr. Parker living on the other side of the town.”

“And you think that if I’d been here he would have ‘tore’ in here?”

“If he hadn’t I’d just have called out to him as he went by.  He was that wild he’d have taken anybody.”

“I see,” with humility.  “I lost a good chance there!”

“Well, if you live here you’ll get others.  Why, from the spare-room windows you can see the corner window down at the Coombe place.  I could make out to let you have your meals, too.  Only I’d expect you to be as reg’lar as Providence permitted.  I know a doctor is bound to be more aggravating in that way than other folks, but if you’d be as regular as lay in you, I’d put up with it.  ’Tisn’t as if I wasn’t always prepared.  When will you want to move in?”

“Really, I—­I don’t know—­” The bewildered Callandar glanced for help to Ann, but met only clasped hands and an imploring stare.  “I’ll—­I’ll let you know,” he faltered.

Thinking it over afterwards, he could never understand why he did not promptly refuse to be coerced, but at the time surrender seemed the only natural thing.  Besides, he couldn’t stay another day at the Imperial.  He had to go somewhere.  Perhaps it was his destiny to secure Ann against further feather-beds.  Anyway, he accepted it.

“Oh, goody!” cried Ann, clapping her hands.

“Ann! put your hands under those clothes.  How often must I tell you that you’ll get your death?  If you like, Doctor, there’s nothing to prevent your moving in to-morrow.  I’ll need a day to air the feather-tick and make some pie.”

The doctor was at last roused to action.

“There are conditions,” he said hastily.  “If I come here, there is to be no feather-tick and no pie!”

“No feather-bed?” in amazement.

“No pie?” Ann’s voice was a sorrowful whisper.

“You see,” Callandar explained, “I am here partly for my health.  My health cannot lie on feather-beds nor eat pie—­well, perhaps,” with a glance at Ann, “an occasional pie may do no harm.  But I shall send down some springs and a mattress.  I have to use a special kind,” hastily.