One day she closed the villa and went swiftly to Lausanne.
She entered a bright consulting room where there rose to meet her, from behind a desk, a calm-looking man with a bushy red and white beard. His gaze took in, in a flash, her widow's weeds, her tall, slim person, her delicate, pale brown face, her features composed and yet a trifle wild, her whole effect of elegance and singularity.
"I feel as if I am going mad," she blurted out, by way of greeting.
The famous physician smoothed his beard reflectively.
"There is a story, perhaps?"
And when she had told him everything, he remarked, "I will make out for you a series of appointments."
"The cause will remain," she returned.
"But I shall change your thoughts about the cause," he said paternally.
"No!" she exclaimed, in a voice vibrant with apprehension. For she would have gone on risking this madness that she feared, rather than let him efface from her conscious thoughts, or even dim, one recollection of Lawrence.
He understood. Casting down his eyes, he reflected: