“Do you feel as if you could breathe freely, but that if you did it would kill you?” I inquired, after I had examined her. And she nodded, smiling again. Miss Russell also smiled, evidently pleased that I had diagnosed the case so quickly.
My patient was suffering from a mild attack of pseudo-angina, nothing worse. Not angina pectoris, you know—that’s usually associated with old age. Pseudo-angina is a different thing. With a weak heart, it may be caused by indigestion. The symptoms are cardiac spasms, acute pain in the chest, a strong disinclination to make even the smallest movement, and a state of mental depression, together with that queer fancy about breathing. The girl had these symptoms, and she also had a headache and a dicrotism of the pulse—two pulsations instead of one, not unusual. I found that she had been eating a too hearty dinner, and that she had suffered from several similar attacks in the immediate past.
“You had a doctor in before?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Miss Russell. “But he was unable to come to-night, and as your house is so near we sent for you.”
“There is no danger whatever—no real cause for anxiety,” I summed up. “I will have some medicine made up instantly.”
“Trinitrin?” demanded Miss Russell.
“Yes,” I answered, a little astonished at this readiness. “Your regular physician prescribed it?”
(I should explain to you that trinitrin is nothing but nitro-glycerine in a non-explosive form.)
“I think it was trinitrin,” Miss Russell replied, with an appearance of doubtfulness. “Perhaps you will write the prescription and I will despatch a messenger at once. I should be obliged, doctor, if you would remain with us until—if you would remain with us.”
“Decidedly!” I said. “I will remain with pleasure. But do accept my assurance,” I added, gazing at her face, so anxious and apprehensive, “that there is no cause for alarm.”