While he spoke, he felt as if he were being examined by her. Never before had he experienced this curious sensation, almost of self-consciousness, with any patient.
"Oh, no," she said, "I don't want to be examined. I know my heart and my lungs and so on are sound enough."
"At any rate, allow me to feel your pulse."
"And look at my tongue, perhaps!"
She laughed, but she pulled off her glove and extended her hand to him. He put his fingers on her wrist, and looked at his watch. Her skin was cool. Her pulse beat regularly and strongly. From her, a message to his lightly touching fingers, flowed surely determination, self-possession, hardihood, even combativeness. As he felt her pulse he understood the defiance of her life.
"Your pulse is good," he said, dropping her hand.
During the short time he had touched her, he seemed to have learnt a great deal about her.
And she—how much had she learnt about him?
He found himself wondering in a fashion unorthodox in a doctor.
"Mrs. Chepstow," he said, speaking rather brusquely, "I wish you would kindly explain to me exactly why you have come here to-day. If you don't feel ill, why waste your time with a doctor? I am sure you are not a woman to run about seeking what you have."