The Young Doctor did not want to know. As a doctor he did not want to know.
"Not now," he said firmly. "Tell me when I come again."
A look of pain came into her face. "But who can tell when you'll come again!" she pleaded.
"When I will things to be, they generally happen," he answered in a commonplace tone. "You are my patient now, and I must keep an eye on you. So I'll come."
Again, with an almost spasmodical movement towards him, she said:
"I must tell you. I wanted to tell you the first day I saw you. You seemed the same kind of man my father was. My name's Louise. It was my mother made me do it. There was a mortgage—I was only sixteen. It's three years ago. He said to my mother he'd tear up the mortgage if I married him. That's why I'm here with him—Mrs. Mazarine. But my name's Louise."
"Yes, yes, I know," the Young Doctor answered soothingly. "But you must not talk of it now. I understand perfectly. Tell me all about it another time."
"You don't think I should have—" She paused.
"Of course. I tell you I understand. Now you must be quiet. Drink this." He got up and poured some liquid into a glass.
At that moment there was a noise below in the hall. "That's my husband," the girl-wife said, and the old wan captive-look came into her face.