Again her eyes were lifted to Carden; again she dropped her white lids. Her worst fears were confirmed.
Meanwhile he stood on the threshold looking at her, his pulses racing, his very soul staring through his eyes; and, within him, every sense clamoring out revolt at the deception, demanding confession and its penalty.
"I can't stand this!" he blurted out; and she looked up quickly, her face blanched with foreboding.
"Are you in pain?" she asked.
"No—not that sort of pain! I—won't you please believe that I am not ill? I'm imposing on you. I'm an impostor! There's nothing whatever the trouble with me except—something that I want to tell you—if you'll let me—"
"Why should you hesitate to confide in a physician, Mr. Carden?"
He came forward slowly. She laid her small hand on the empty chair which faced hers and he sank into it, clasping his restless hands under his chin.
"You are feeling depressed," she said gently. Depression was a significant symptom. Three chapters were devoted to it.
"I'm depressed, of course. I'm horribly depressed and ashamed of myself, because there is nothing on earth the matter with me, and I've let you think there is."
She smiled mournfully; this was another symptom of a morbid state. She turned, unconsciously, to page 379 to verify her observation.