"I'm quite ready."
"I don't know whether or not to be glad that you have no curiosity about your own case," he said presently.
"That only shows you how helpless I am. I have no choice. I have lost my own identity."
"Didn't your doctor back in Cleveland tell you anything about what was wrong with your eyes?"
"He said at first it was retinal; then he said it was iritis. He didn't like to answer any questions."
"The old way—adding to all the old mummeries of the most mumming of all professions—medicine! That dates back to bats' wings and toads' livers as cure for the spleen. But at least and at last he said it was iritis?"
"Yes. He told me that I might gradually lose one eye—which was true. He thought the trouble might advance to the other eye. It came out that way. He must have known."
"Perhaps he knew part," said Doctor Barnes. "You had some pain?"
"Unbearable pain part of the time—over the eyes, in the front of the head."
"Didn't your doctor tell you what iritis meant?"