"I see," said Stanchon. "Let me walk up to the door with you—I've practiced on the steps, once today. You make it ..."
"Oh, clear paranoia," Jarvyse finished the sentence promptly. "They go right along, you know. Perfectly typical. Good days—yes. Of course. Everybody encouraged. Come to a ladies' luncheon—fat in the fire directly. No keeping servants, you know. All that sort of thing. Ever show you my card-catalogue of women between thirty-eight and thirty-nine? No? Ask me some day."
The younger man pressed the electric button and turned the bronze knob of the outer door, wrought and decorated like some great public tomb.
"Thanks, I'd be interested," he said.
"You knew the brother, didn't you?" Jarvyse went on, breathing easier in the warmth of the vestibule. "Nothing out of the way there?"
"Absolutely not. He had the constitution of a bull. But I fear he's not handed it on to his son."
"Ugh, no! Nasty little cub. Those families don't last. Daughters always stronger. I give him fifteen ... eighteen years," the alienist said placidly.
The inner door opened and Stanchon turned to go.
"Come up and see the patient," Jarvyse suggested, over his shoulder, one glove already off. "Pleased to have you, and so would she, of course. You'll find her much happier."