“Oh, that’s not so very far,” I exclaimed, eager to be her companion. “A cab will soon take us there.”
“Dr. Whitworth usually comes over to visit my brother once a week—every Thursday. Did he tell you nothing of his case?”
“No. Probably he considers him a private patient, while I am left in charge of the poorer people who come to the dispensary.”
“Ah! I understand,” she said, drawing the black boa tighter around her throat, as though ready for departure.
I made some inquiries regarding the region where her brother’s pain was situated, and, placing a morphia case and bottles of various narcotics in my well-worn black bag, put on my hat and announced my readiness to accompany her.
As I turned again to her I could not fail to notice that the colour in her face a moment before had all gone out of it. She was ashen pale, almost to the lips. The change in her had been sudden, and I saw that as she stood she gripped the back of her chair, swaying to and fro as though every moment she might collapse in a faint.
“You are unwell,” I said quickly.
“A—a little faintness. That is all,” she gasped.
Without a moment’s delay I got her seated, and rushing into the dispensary obtained restoratives, which in a few minutes brought her back to her former self.
“How foolish!” she remarked, as though disgusted with herself. “Forgive me, doctor; I suppose it is because I have been up two nights with my brother and am tired out.”