"And, Eleanor, try and don't rub him the wrong way about his
name. Is it worth while? There have to be Joneses, you know."
"Tell him," she burst out, "tell him--oh, I never meant to wound
him--truly, I didn't . . . a name that's good enough for him is
good enough for me!"
The next morning at nine I pulled up my Porcher-Mufflin car
before Jones' door. He was sitting at his table reading a book,
and he made no motion to rise as I came in. He gave me a pale,
expressionless stare instead, such as an ancient Christian might
have worn when the call-boy told him the lions were ready in the
Colosseum. Resignation, obstinacy and defiance--all nicely
blended under a turn-the-other-cheek exterior. He looked
woebegone, and his thin, handsome face betrayed a sleepless night
and a breakfastless morning. I could feel that my presence was
the last straw to this unfortunate medical camel.