That afternoon Ina Klosking insisted on walking up and down the room, supported by Mesdemoiselles Gale and Dover. The result was fatigue and sleep; that is all.
“To-morrow,” said she, “I will have but one live crutch. I must and will recover my strength.”
In the evening she insisted on both ladies dining with Mr. Vizard. Here, too, she had her way.
Vizard was in very good spirits, and, when the servants were gone, complimented Miss Gale on her skill.
“Our skill, you mean,” said she. “It was you who prescribed this new medicine of the mind, the psalms and hymns and spiritual songs; and it was you who administered the Ashmead, and he made her laugh, or nearly—and that we have never been able to do. She must take a few grains of Ashmead every day. The worst of it is, I am afraid we shall cure her too quickly; and then we shall lose her. But that was to be expected. I am very unfortunate in my attachments; I always was. If I fall in love with a woman, she is sure to hate me, or else die, or else fly away. I love this one to distraction, so she is sure to desert me, because she couldn't misbehave, and I won't let her die.”
“Well,” said Vizard, “you know what to do—retard the cure. That is one of the arts of your profession.”
“And so it is; but how can I, when I love her? No, we must have recourse to our benevolent tyrant again. He must get Miss Vizard back here, before my goddess is well enough to spread her wings and fly.”
Vizard looked puzzled. “This,” said he “sounds like a riddle, or female logic.”
“It is both,” said Rhoda. “Miss Dover, give him the mot d'e'nigme. I'm off—to the patient I adore.”
She vanished swiftly, and Vizard looked to Fanny for a solution. But Fanny seemed rather vexed with Miss Gale, and said nothing. Then he pressed her to explain.