“I shall still consider you my patient,” I said.
“No,” she said. “I trust that you will regard me as more than a mere patient—as your friend.”
“I am honoured by your friendship,” I replied. “And if I can, at any time, do anything to assist you in this mental trouble of yours, I will do it with pleasure.”
I had, during our conversation, been attracted by her frankness of manner and the evident sorrow which weighed so heavily upon her. She had confessed to me, and we had now become friends. My position was a curious one: the adviser of a woman who was wearing out her heart for her husband’s love. It was not altogether devoid of danger either, for her ladyship was an exceedingly attractive woman.
I had written the prescription and handed it to her, but, apparently in no mood to allow me to go, she did not rise.
While I had been busily writing at the little escritoire her manner had apparently changed, for she was no longer the serious, nervous woman of ten minutes before, but quite gay and vivacious, with a look of triumph in her fine, dark eyes.
“I am very glad, Doctor Colkirk, that you have promised to assist me,” she said, laughing merrily and stretching out her tiny foot from beneath the hem of her skirt with a distinct air of coquetry. “I feel sure that we shall be excellent friends.”
“I hope so,” I replied. “But you must be careful of your general health, and persevere with the treatment.”
“I don’t care much for chemists’ concoctions,” she laughed. “It’s very good of you to have given me this prescription, but I don’t propose to make use of it.”
“Why not?” I inquired in quick surprise.