“Gabriel Stanton.”
“Gabriel Stanton!” I sat upright in my chair; that really startled me. “Gabriel Stanton,” I repeated, and then, stupidly enough: “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. But I won’t talk about it any more since it bores you. The house is so haunted for me, and you seemed so sympathetic, so interested. You won’t let me doctor you.”
“You haven’t tried very hard, have you?”
“You put me off whenever I try to ask you how you are, or any questions.”
“What is the good? I’ve seen twelve London doctors.”
“London has not the monopoly of talent.” He took up his hat, and then my hand.
“Offended?” I asked him.
“No. But my partner will be home tomorrow, and I’m relinquishing my place to him. It is really his case.”
“I refuse to be anybody’s case. I’ve heard from the best authorities that no one knows anything about neuritis and that it is practically incurable. One has to suffer and suffer. Even Almroth Wright has not found the anti-bacilli. Nepenthe gives me ease; that is all the doctoring I want—ease!”