“Very well, Hassan oghlou Ahmed, what diseases have you had?” said Ihsan, smiling in spite of himself.
“What the deuce has that to do with Enver Pasha?” I expostulated. “There’s no infection about me, unless I picked up something in your beastly bath last night.” I began a complaint about the state of the hospital bathroom, but was interrupted.
“I must know,” Ihsan said.
“Measles, scarlet fever, whooping cough—is that enough?”
“No—I want them all.”
“Malaria, ague, dengue fever, black-water fever, enteric, paratyphoid, dysentery,” I said.
“Have you ever had syphilis?” the doctor asked. This was the disease he expected me to name. The examination was proceeding exactly on the lines O’Farrell had foretold, and I knew what to do. I hung my head and began picking nervously at the hem of my nightgown-shirt.
“Come,” he went on. “You’ve had it, have you not?”
“I’ve had pneumonia and pleurisy,” I said, picking away more furiously than ever.
“Never mind about the other things,—I want to know about syphilis.”