“Which means trouble,” sighed Dr. Strong. “Now that her vitality is returning, it will demand something to feed on. Well, we shall see.”
He found his patient standing—not sitting, this time—before the fireplace, with a face of gloom. Before he could greet her, she burst out:—
“How long am I to be kept on the grind? I see nobody. I have nothing to amuse me. I’ve had a row with father.” Dr. Strong smiled. “The servants are impertinent.” The smile broadened. “The whole world is hateful!” The doctor’s face was now expanded into a positive grin. “I despise everything and everybody! I’m bored.”
“Passing that over for the moment for something less important,” said Dr. Strong smoothly, “where do you buy your paint?”
“I don’t paint!” retorted the girl hotly.
“Well, your rouge. Your skin-rejuvenator. Your essence of bloom of youth or whatever poetic name you call it by. Let me see the box.” Mutiny shone from the scowling face, but her hand went to her reticule and emerged with a small box. It passed to the physician’s hand and thence to the fire. “I’ll use paint if I want to,” declared the girl. “Undoubtedly. But you’ll use good paint if you use any. Get a theatrical paper, read the ads, and send for the highest grade of grease-paint. I won’t say anything about the vulgarity of the practice because I’m not censoring your manners. I’ll only state that three months from now you won’t want or need paint. Did you get this stuff,” he nodded toward the fireplace whence issued a highly perfumed smoke, “from that address in your deceased symptom-book?”
“Yes.”
“That was the firm which advertised to remove pimples, wasn’t it?”
Miss Ennis shrank. “Pimple is an inexcusable word,” she protested.
“Word? We’re dealing in realities now. And pimples were an inexcusable reality in your case, because they were the blossoms of gluttony, torpor, and self-indulgence.”