Then the tenor sang, and after the applause had given way to another rustle of talk, the gray-haired man continued as if there had been no interruption:—
"So you don't live in New York?—lucky woman!"
Isabelle moved her chair to look at this person, who wanted to talk. She thought him unusual in appearance, and liked his friendliness. His face was lined and thin, and the long, thin hand on his knee was muscular. Isabelle decided that he must be Somebody.
"I am here for my health, but I expect to live in New York," she explained.
"In New York for your health?" he asked in a puzzled tone. "You see, I am a doctor."
"Yes—I came to consult Dr. Potts. I gave out,—am always giving out,"
Isabelle continued with that confiding frankness that always pleased men.
"I'm like so many women these days,—no good, nerves! If you are a doctor,
please tell me why we should all go to pieces in this foolish fashion?"
"If I could do that satisfactorily and also tell you how not to go to pieces, I should be a very famous man," he replied pleasantly.
"Perhaps you are!"
"Perhaps. But I haven't discovered that secret, yet."
"Dr. Potts says it's all the chemistry inside us—autointoxication, poison!"