"Won't you sit down, too?" he said. "We will talk a little."
She shook her head decisively.
"No—I—I can't talk to you. I had fully made up my mind never to see you again. I'll be perfectly frank, Dr. Zacharie, you have a disquieting effect on me."
He smiled again, a cynical, horrible smile, which made her shudder.
"That is because I tell you the truth," he said, blinking his eyes. "You don't like to hear about your state of mind."
"No. For I don't believe what you say," she retorted hotly. "My health—my mind—is as clear as yours. I am only tired. I'm weary to death of this awful lawsuit. I am compelled to stay in-doors, to keep my door locked so that they shan't serve me with any one of those dreadful papers summoning me to appear, to answer, to show cause, to answer endless questions. Even when you knocked just now my heart began to beat."
He shrugged his shoulders as if the symptoms she described confirmed only too well his diagnosis.
"You see," he cried, "you are all nerves! There is great danger there—hidden dangers that only we men of science can see."
Starting involuntarily, she exclaimed apprehensively:
"Hidden danger! What do you mean? Why do you tell me these things? Do you think it does me any good to hear them? Last time you were here, doctor, I asked you not to call again. I told you I needed no further professional advice. I am perfectly well—and strong—and—and—and——"