"I think that she is very charming—and, M. Stainton, very young."
It struck Jim that the concluding phrase had been weighted with significance.
"I don't know just how to tell you," he resumed. "I don't like to talk even to my physician of—of certain intimate matters; but"—he glanced at the most conspicuous volumes on the nearest shelf—"from the titles of these books, I think that what I want to see you about falls within the limits of your specialty."
He stopped, gnawing his lower lip, his mind seeking phrases. Before he could find a suitable one, his vis-à-vis, looking him straight in the eyes, had settled the matter:
"My friend, there are but two reasons why one that is no fool should drink absinthe at an hour so greatly early: or he has been guilty of excess and regrets, or he has been unable to be guilty and regrets." He paused, his face thrust half across the desk. "Madame," he demanded, "she is how old?"
Stainton met him bravely now, but in a manner clearly showing his anxiety to protect himself.
"She is nearly nineteen."
"Eighteen, bien. And you?"
Jim drew back. He took a long breath; his fingers held tightly to the arms of his chair.
"Before I married," he said, "only a very short time before I married, I had myself looked over carefully by one of the most eminent physicians in New York. He assured me that I was in perfect physical condition, that I was not by any means an old man, that, as a matter of fact——"