Doctor  Masterson  greeted  her  with  a  sour  ex-
pression, and  shook  hands  limply.  He  sat  down  de-
liberately, and,  pulling  out  a  soiled  silk  handkerchief,
wiped  his  creased  forehead  and  his  bald  pate.  Then
he  cleaned  his  iron-bowed  spectacles,  blinking  his
red  eyes  as  he  breathed  on  the  lenses.
Vixley,  from  the  organ  bench,  watched  him
shrewdly,  and  offered  him  a  cigar.
"No,  thanks,  I  don't  smoke,"  said  the  doctor
peevishly.
"Since  when?"  Vixley  asked  in  surprise.
"Since  you  give  me  that  last  'Flor  de  Chinatown/
or  whatever  it  was.  When  I  want  to  smoke  rag
carpets  again  I'll  try  another."  He  showed  his  black
teeth  in  a  vicious  grin.
