“By an old patient of yours—a lady whom I met at a house-party a month ago, in Yorkshire.”
“But I understood that you were consulting me regarding your craving for stimulants,” I said, as her dark, serious eyes met mine again.
She was a decidedly attractive woman, with the easy air and manner of one brought up in good society.
“The craving for drink is the least dangerous of my ailments,” she responded. “It is the craving for love which is driving me to despair.”
I remained silent for a moment, my eyes fixed upon her.
“Pardon my remark,” I said, at last, in a low tone, “but I gather from your words that some man has come between yourself and your husband.”
“Between myself and my husband!” she echoed in surprise. “Why, no, Doctor. You don’t understand me. I love my husband, and he has no love for me!” Her statement was certainly a most unusual one. She was by no means a simple-minded woman, but, on the contrary, clever and intelligent, with a thorough knowledge of the world. It therefore seemed astounding that she should make this remarkable confession. But I controlled my surprise, and responded—
“You are, unfortunately, but one wife among thousands in exactly the same position. If we only knew the composition of the ancient love-philtre it would be in daily requisition. But, unfortunately, medical science is unable to influence the passion of the heart.”
“Of course,” she sighed. Then, with her eyes cast down upon the small table beside which she was sitting, she added, “I suppose, if the truth were known, you consider me very foolish in making this confession to you, a comparative stranger?”
“I do not consider it foolishness at all,” I hastened to assure her. “A neglected wife must always excite sympathy.”