In spite of her tears and agitation she smiled, but looked puzzled, as I afterward recalled she always did when I mentioned his name, or spoke as if she knew him well.
"I have not watched you for nothing. And I never treat a patient without first diagnosing his case. I do not say that I am always right. I am not vain of the methods nor of the progress of my profession; but I am, at least, not blind, and I have always been interested in you. I should like to help you, if you will let me. I can do nothing for you in the dark." Then dropping my voice, significantly: "Does he know where you are? Does he know you are ill?"
There was a long silence. I did not know but that she was offended. She was struggling for command of her voice, and for courage. Presently she said, in a hoarse whisper, which evidently shocked her as much as it startled me, so unnatural did it sound:
"Who? My husband?"
"Your husband!" I exclaimed. "Are you—is there—I did not know you were married. Why did you always allow me to call you Miss Campbell?"
"I do not know," she said, wearily. "It made no difference to me, and it seemed to please your fancy to treat me as a child.. But I never really noticed that you did always call me Miss. If I had, I should not have cared. What difference could it make to me—or to you—what prefix you put to my name?"
"But I did not know you were married," I said almost sharply.
She looked up, startled for a moment; but recovering, as from some vague suspicion, in an instant she said, smiling a little, and with evident relief, plunging into a new opening:
"That had nothing to do with my case. There was no need to discuss family relations. I never thought of whether you were married or not. You were my doctor—I your patient. What our family relations, wardrobes, or political affiliations might be seem to me quite aside from that. We may choose to talk of them together, or we may not, as the case may be. And in my case, it would not be—edifying." There was a moment's pause, then she said, rather impatiently, but as if the new topic were a relief to her: "The idea that a woman must be ticketed as married or unmarried, to every chance acquaintance, is repellent to me. Men are not so ticketed—and that is right. It is vulgar to suppose a sign is needed to prevent trespass, or to tempt approach. 'Miss Jones, this is Mr. Smith.' What does it tell?" She was talking very rapidly now—nervously. "It tells her, 'Here is a gentleman to whom I wish to introduce you. If you find him agreeable you will doubtless learn more of him later on.' It tells him, 'Here is a lady. She is not married. Her family relations—her most private affairs—are thrust in his face before she has even said good evening to him. I think it is vulgar, and it is certainly an unnecessary personality. What his or her marital relations may be would seem to come a good deal later in the stage of acquaintance, don't you think so, doctor?" She laughed, but it was not like herself. Even the laugh had changed. She was fighting for time.
"It is a new idea to me," I said, "and I confess I like it. Come to think of it, it is a trifle premature—this thrusting a title intended to indicate private relations onto a name used on all public occasions. By Jove! it is absurd. I never thought of it before; but it is never done with men, is it? 'General,' 'Mr.' 'Dr.'—none of them. All relate to him as an individual, leaving vast fields of possibilities all about him. 'Mrs.' 'Miss'—they tell one thing, and one only. That is of a private nature—a personal association. You have started me on a new line of thought, and," said I, taking her hand again, "you have given me so much that is new to think of to-night that I will go home to look over the budget. You are tired out. Go to bed now. Order your tea brought up. Here is an order to see to anything you may ask, promptly. Beesley, the manager, is an old friend of mine. Any order you may give, if you send it down with this note from me, will be obeyed at once. I shall come to-morrow. Good-night."