“Why?” I asked.
“I want to find out why you are ill.”
“But I’m not ill!—Don’t be silly!”
“You’ve got to tell me,” he said sternly.
I remained silent.
“Enver Pasha is very particular about this question,” Ihsan went on in an encouraging tone. “Come now.”
“When I was about eighteen,” I began shamefacedly—and stopped.
“Yes! When you were about eighteen?”
“Nothing!” I said, with sudden resolution, “nothing at all! I was very well when I was eighteen! And what’s more, I think you are very insulting to ask such a question. I don’t believe Enver Pasha cares two whoops whether I’ve had syphilis or not. I am sure you have no right to ask me such a thing! I’ll report you for it!” In my pretended excitement my straining fingers ripped a large piece out of my nightgown-shirt. (I was to destroy many more of those elegant garments before we were done with Haidar Pasha.) The doctor calmed me down.
“There now!” he said soothingly. “You needn’t say it. What treatment did you undergo?”