“Not at all—not at all,” and he flicked his handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish a lens in a tortoise-shell setting.
“I must confess, Dr. Peterson, that I have been subjected to a great deal of worry and—and doubt. My husband only returned yesterday. Of course, you know about that. Dr. Little sent for you to see Major Murray’s wife, I believe.”
Dr. Peterson still flourished his handkerchief.
“Has Dr. Steel expressed any opinion to you?”
“About this?”
“Yes.”
“He told me that it was a form of eczema.”
The specialist threw a sharp, penetrating look at her face.
“That was your husband’s diagnosis?”
“I believe it to be incorrect.”