"Upper or lower?" he asked, with a laugh, and then he gazed fixedly at me.
I had not realized that I had upper teeth until he spoke, and a shudder went through me as a semicircle of pain shot through my upper jaw.
"Upper," I retorted, with some surliness.
"Verging a trifle on your cheekbones, and thence to the optic nerve," he said, calmly, still gazing into my soul. "I'll try your sight. Look at that card over there, and tell me—"
"What nonsense is this, doctor?" I cried, angry at his airy manner and manifest control over my symptoms. "There is nothing the matter with my eyes. They're as good as any one of the million eyes of your friend the Argus."
"Then what, in the name of Jupiter, is the matter with you?" he ejaculated, elevating his eyebrows.
"Nothing at all," said I, sulkily.
Æsculapius threw himself on the sofa and roared with laughter.
"Perfectly splendid!" he said, when he had recovered from his mirth. "Perfectly splendid! You are the best example of the value of my system I've had in a long time. Now let me show you something," he added. "Put these glasses on."
He took the glasses from his nose and put them astride of mine, and lead me before a mirror—a cheval-glass arrangement that stood in one corner of the room.