He looked at her, nonplussed for the moment, and suddenly Chloe's face softened.
"Dr. Anstice, forgive me. The fact is, I had a bad night, and am all on edge this morning."
"Why do you sit in here?" asked Anstice abruptly. "It is a lovely morning—the sun is warm and there's no wind. Why not go out into your charming garden? Lie in a low chair and sleep—or read some amusing book. Is this a particularly engrossing one?"
He picked up the volume she had laid down at his entrance, and she watched him with a faint hint of mockery in her blue eyes. His face changed as he read the title.
"De Quincey's Confessions! Mrs. Carstairs, you're not interested in this sort of thing?"
"Why not?" Her manner was ever so slightly antagonistic. "The subject is a fascinating one, isn't it? I confess I've often felt inclined to try opium—morphia or something of the sort, myself."
"Morphia?" His voice startled her by its harshness. "Don't make a joke of it, Mrs. Carstairs. If I thought you really meant that——"
"But I do—or did." She spoke coolly. "I even went so far as to purchase the means of indulging my fancy."
"You did? But—forgive me—why?"
"Don't we all sigh for oblivion now and then?" She put the question calmly, looking him squarely in the face the while. "I have always understood that morphia is one of the roads into Paradise—a Fool's Paradise, no doubt, but we poor wretches can't always choose our heavens."