"That's it! the physician's, to help and to heal. This appears to be—combination—both—"
The hand was removed from his wrist. He frowned heavily, and asked if he were a Mohammedan. Receiving no answer, repeated the question with some irritation.
"I don't think so," said the same quiet voice. "Then why—turban?" he frowned again, and brought the folds of linen lower over his nose. They were quietly readjusted. The light, firm hand was laid on his forehead for a moment, then once more on his wrist. Then something was put to his lips; he was told to drink, and did so. Than he said, "My name is Geoffrey Strong. There is nothing the matter with me."
"Yes, I know."
"But—if you take away your hand—I can't hold on, you know."
The hand was laid firmly on his. He sighed comfortably, murmuring something about not knowing that violoncellos had hands; dozed a few minutes; dragged himself up from unimaginable depths to ask, "You are sure you understand that about the pulse?"
Being answered, "Yes, I quite understand," said, "Then you'll see to it!" and slept like a baby.
When he woke next morning, it was with an alert and inquisitive eye.
The eye glanced here and there, taking in details.
"What the—what is all this?"
There was a soft flurry, and Miss Vesta was beside him. "Oh! my dear—my dear young friend! thank God, you are yourself again!"