"Do you mean to imply that my mind is diseased?"
"No. But you don't give it enough to think about. You only give it yourself. And that isn't nearly enough."
Sir Henry rose, and put a trembling finger into his waistcoat-pocket.
"I believe I owe you—?"
"Nothing. But if you care to put something into the box on my hall table, you will help some poor man to get away to the seaside after an operation, and find out what is the best medicine in the world."
"And now for Mrs. Chepstow!" the Doctor murmured to himself, as the door closed behind the outraged back of an enemy.
He sat still for a minute or two, expecting to see the door open again, the form of a woman framed in the doorway. But no one came. He began to feel restless. He was not accustomed to be kept waiting by his patients, although he often kept them waiting. There was a bell close to his elbow. He touched it, and his man-servant instantly appeared.
"Mrs. Chepstow is down for five-thirty. It is now"—he pulled out his watch—"nearly ten minutes to six. Hasn't she come?"
"No, sir. Two or three people have been, without appointments."
"And you have sent them away, of course? Quite right. Well, I shan't stay in any longer."