Beside the course, in attitudes of graceful ease, stood men in very tight trousers and very high stocks and ladies in dresses which pinched in at the waist and flowed out at the shoulders.

They leaned upon canes or twirled parasols and they had their backs turned upon the racetrack as if they found their own negligent conversation far more exciting than the breathless, driving finish.
Under the terrific action and still more terrific quiescence of this picture lay the sick man, propped high on a couch and wrapped to the chest in a Navajo blanket.
"Dad," said Kate Cumberland, "Doctor Hardin was not in town.

I've brought out Doctor Byrne, a newcomer." The invalid turned his white head slowly towards them, and his shaggy brows lifted and fell slightly--a passing shadow of annoyance.

It was a very stern face, and framed in the long, white hair it seemed surrounded by an atmosphere of Arctic chill.

He was thin, terribly thin--not the leanness of Byrne, but a grim emaciation which exaggerated the size of a tall forehead and made his eyes supernally bright.