When he came up, later on, she told him something of her good intentions. They did not interest him very much, it was not service he wanted from her. He heard her night had been good, that she felt rested and better this morning. He had not been told what had disturbed the last one. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, doctor and patient, when the parlourmaid came in with a card. Margaret looked at it and laughed, passed it over to him.
“That’s Anne,” she said. “Anne evidently thinks I am a hopeful subject.”
The card bore the name of “Mrs. Roope, Christian Healer.”
“Stay and see her with me,” she said to Peter. “It will be almost like a consultation, won’t it?... Yes,” she told the parlourmaid, “I will see the lady. Let her come up. Now, Peter Kennedy, is opportunity to show your quality, your tact. I expect to be amused, I want to be amused.”
Peter was not loath to stay, whatever the excuse.
Mrs. Roope, tall, and dressed something like a hospital nurse, in long flowing cloak and bonnet with veil, was ushered in, but delayed a little in her greeting, because that hysterical affection of the throat of which Anne had spoken, caught and held her, and at first she could only make uncanny noises, something between a hiccough and a bad stammer.
“I’ve come to see you,” she said not once but several times without getting any further.
“Sit down,” Margaret said good-naturedly. “This is my doctor. I would suggest you ask him to cure your affliction, only I understand you prefer your own methods.”
“There is nothing the matter with me,” said the Christian Scientist with an unavoidable contortion.
“So I see,” said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with humour.