"I am not ill," Mona said apologetically. "But I can't sleep much, and things get on my nerves; so I thought I would allow myself the luxury of consulting you."
"You do look seedy," was the frank reply, and the brown eyes kept firm hold of the white, sensitive face. "Over-working?"
"No."
"When is your next examination?"
"Not for eighteen months."
"So it isn't that?"
"No, it isn't that."
Dr Bateson put her fingers on the girl's pulse. Her manner could not be called strictly sympathetic—certainly not effusive—but there was something very irresistible in her profound and unassumed interest in her patients.
"Is something particular worrying you?" she said shortly.
Mona smiled drearily.