In the morning, which was Sunday, Birdie Bolton came to see Dr. Reginald Fortune. It was her remarkable creed that she could not live in a noise, and so for years she had owned a house in the still rural suburb of Westhampton where Reggie and his father practised. The elder Dr. Fortune at first looked after her, but when Reggie came on the scene Miss Bolton, declaring with her usual frankness that she liked her doctors young, turned herself over to him.
By daylight Miss Bolton dressed, and even overdressed, the part of a brisk British spinster. She was very tailor-made and severely tweedy, and thus looked leaner than ever. But her eyes retained a gleam of devilment.
“You gave us a great show last night,” Reggie said.
“Were you in front?” said Miss Bolton, and made a face. “Oh, Lord! Sorry. I was rotten.”
Reggie understood that his professional interest was required.
“What’s the trouble?” he said cheerfully.
“That’s your show,” said Miss Bolton. “Put me through it.”
The conversation then became confidential and dull upon the usual themes of a medical examination. At last, “Well, you know, we don’t get to anything,” Reggie said. “This is all quite good and normal. What’s making you anxious?”
“Dreams,” said Miss Bolton. “Why do I have dreams? I never dreamed in my life till now.”
“What sort of dreams?”