"Listen to me," I said; "I do not think there is another man in London as well qualified to do him good."
"Why?" she asked, eagerly.
"Because I have made this disease my special study," I answered. "Mind, I am not anxious to attend him. I came here simply because my friend is out of town. If he wishes to see me, I will see him, and do my best for him. It rests entirely with himself."
"Will you wait here a few minutes?" she asked, "while I see what he will do?"
She left me in the dimly-lighted hall, pervaded by a musty smell of unventilated rooms, and a damp, dirty underground floor. The place was altogether sordid, and dingy, and miserable. At last I heard her step coming down the two flights of stairs, and I went to meet her.
"He will see you," she said, eying me herself with a steady gaze of curiosity.
Her curiosity was not greater than mine. I was anxious to see Olivia's husband, partly from the intense aversion I felt instinctively toward him. He was lying back in an old, worn-out easy-chair, with a woman's shawl thrown across his shoulders, for the night was chilly. His face had the first sickly hue and emaciation of the disease, and was probably refined by it. It was a handsome, regular, well-cut face, narrow across the brows, with thin, firm lips, and eyes perfect in shape, but cold and glittering as steel. I knew afterward that he was fifteen years older than Olivia. Across his knees lay a shaggy, starved-looking cat, which he held fast by the fore-paws, and from time to time entertained himself by teasing and tormenting it. He scrutinized me as keenly as I did him.
"I believe we are in some sort connected. Dr. Martin Dobrée," he said, smiling coldly; "my half-sister, Kate Daltrey, is married to your father, Dr. Dobrée."
"Yes," I answered, shortly. The subject was eminently disagreeable to me, and I had no wish to pursue it with him.
"Ay! she will make him a happy man," he continued, mockingly; "you are not yourself married, I believe, Dr. Martin Dobrée?"