“Do you always go alone?” asked the doctor shortly.
She turned her face away from the searching gray eyes.
“Yes, but I don’t mind. It—it’s a good time to think, you know.”
“Yes,” his searching eyes explored the averted cheek, upon which her lashes fluttered nervously. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mrs. Petrovskey?”
She turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
“Oh, no, Dr. Elliott, of course not.”
“Isn’t your husband the famous Mr. Petrovskey, the well-known pianist or something?”
“The violinist,” she corrected quietly. “Yes, Dr. Elliott.”
“So I thought. Didn’t he have a breakdown of some sort last summer? I don’t keep up much with artists and people like that, I haven’t time, but I seem to remember having read something about it in the papers.”
Claire’s voice faltered. She answered somewhat shortly. “Yes, he was very ill, almost all summer. And now he has pneumonia.”