The doctor had a talk with Isabelle, told her to cheer up, gave her a tonic, agreed with Wally that she needed a change, and went on his way.
Martin Christiansen asked Max about Isabelle and was informed that she had the sulks. He asked permission to see her, and he was the first visitor admitted to her room. He was shocked at the change in her. She was thin, and haggard, and old. Her eyes hurt him. She was sitting up, in a big chair, wearing a bizarre Chinese coat, all orange and black and gold. She looked any age, an exotic little creature. The hand she offered was thin as a bird’s claw.
“I’ve been thinking that you might understand,” she said to him, before he could speak.
“Thank you.”
He drew a chair beside hers and waited.
“You didn’t think I forgot my lines, did you?”
“It wasn’t like you.”
“I didn’t. I was bored at rehearsals, and so I made up a wonderful Mary-part for myself, a noble character whom every one trusted.”
Her eyes were upon his face, and he nodded slowly, hoping that his amusement did not leak through his expression.
“Every day, all those hours, I used to be this made-up Mary, and just toward the last I got a little wobbly as to which Mary was which,” she admitted.