He nodded. "Blumenfeld; yes, I know him. He's on the wrong tack."
Slowly he hoisted his big body up out of the chair, giving the impression that the interview was finished.
"What am I to understand, then, doctor? Do you think you will want me?"
He bent his cold and impersonal gaze on her and again she felt oppressed. Her eyes dwelt on his rather ugly, flattish forehead, which somehow fascinated her. He appeared to be thinking of something else and trying at the same time to bring his attention to bear on the problem of the moment.
"Ah yes. I'll probably let you know this evening, after I've seen that letter. What is your address?"
She gave him the name of her small hotel and he wrote it down. Then suddenly she recalled the question of salary, which had escaped his notice altogether.
"One thing more, doctor. You haven't told me what you pay."
He mentioned a sum in francs; she put it quickly into dollars. It was a much smaller amount than she made in America, but she thought she could live on it. After all, was it not worth a little managing to stay on in this beautiful sunny place?
"You'll get your lunches here—and your tea," the doctor informed her.
He moved towards the door, plainly anxious to be rid of her. It crossed her mind that seldom had she seen a medical man with a less genial personality. She found it an effort to answer naturally, suddenly wondering what it would be like to have her lunch in this house, and whether she had to have it with him.