"Je vous jure, je mourrais—je mourrais…."
The doctor's voice cut in upon her, dominating, brutal even, a tone that caused Esther to gasp and clutch the stair-rail.
"Stop that! Stop that nonsense! Are you an utter fool?" It was like bidding a dog to lie down. Silence followed, then a stifled sob.
CHAPTER IV
Esther's first thought was, "Why does she stand being talked to like that? I wouldn't, not for a moment."
It was as if all his latent contempt for the opposite sex was concentrated into that one vitriolic burst. Well——! Some physicians, she knew, practised with hyper-emotional subjects the method of "treating them rough." This was probably Sartorius's idea. Certainly she was ready to believe that Lady Clifford was of the uncontrolled, hysterical type, who easily gave way to her feelings; perhaps the doctor had found this the best way of dealing with her. As she still paused, hesitating to enter the room, the doctor spoke again. "Sit down and try to behave like a reasonable woman. Remember all I have told you. Why should you upset yourself like this?"
There was no audible reply. Esther retreated upward a few steps, then descended with a brisk step and opened the door. She observed Lady Clifford sitting with a submissive mien on the edge of a stiff François Premier chair, biting her underlip and pulling a small lace-edged handkerchief between her fingers. The doctor, with an immovable face, was filling a hypodermic syringe from a small phial.
"I'm sorry, doctor——" Esther began, when he interrupted her.
"No, no, it's all right, nurse, I found I had some here after all.
Now, if you will assist Lady Clifford with her dress——"
"I suppose you give it in the thigh?"