There was another moment of silence—silence so profound that nothing was audible in the room but the rapid click of Miss Gwilt’s needle through her work.
“Go on,” she said; “you haven’t done yet.”
“True!” said the doctor. “Having put my question, I have my measure of precaution to impress on you next. You will see, my dear madam, that I am not disposed to trust to the chapter of accidents on my side. Reflection has convinced me that you and I are not (logically speaking) so conveniently situated as we might be in case of emergency. Cabs are, as yet, rare in this rapidly improving neighborhood. I am twenty minutes’ walk from you; you are twenty minutes’ walk from me. I know nothing of Mr. Armadale’s character; you know it well. It might be necessary—vitally necessary—to appeal to your superior knowledge of him at a moment’s notice. And how am I to do that unless we are within easy reach of each other, under the same roof? In both our interests, I beg to invite you, my dear madam, to become for a limited period an inmate of My Sanitarium.”
Miss Gwilt’s rapid needle suddenly stopped. “I understand you,” she said again, as quietly as before.
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, with another attack of deafness, and with his hand once more at his ear.
She laughed to herself—a low, terrible laugh, which startled even the doctor into taking his hand off the back of her chair.
“An inmate of your Sanitarium?” she repeated. “You consult appearances in everything else; do you propose to consult appearances in receiving me into your house?”
“Most assuredly!” replied the doctor, with enthusiasm. “I am surprised at your asking me the question! Did you ever know a man of any eminence in my profession who set appearances at defiance? If you honor me by accepting my invitation, you enter My Sanitarium in the most unimpeachable of all possible characters—in the character of a Patient.”
“When do you want my answer?”
“Can you decide to-day?”