Dr. Merrick was a model of the close-shaven clear-cut London consultant.  His shirt-front was as impeccable as his moral character was spotless—­in the way that Belgravia and Harley Street still understood spotlessness.  He was tall and straight, and unbent by age; the professional poker which he had swallowed in early life seemed to stand him in good stead after sixty years, though his hair had whitened fast, and his brow was furrowed with most deliberative wrinkles.  So unapproachable he looked, that not even his own sons dared speak frankly before him.  His very smile was restrained; he hardly permitted himself for a moment that weak human relaxation.

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.