Part 40

“Good! I didn’t reckon on your inherent sense in vain.”

“And to walk where I have been riding?”

“Rain or shine.”

“What about diet?”

“All the plain food you want, at any time you really want it, provided you eat slowly and chew thoroughly.”

“A la Fletcher?”

“Horace Fletcher is one of those fine fanatics whose extravagances correct the average man’s stolid stupidities. I’ve seen his fad made ridiculous, but never harmful. Try it out.”

“And you won’t tell me when to come back?”

“When you need to, I said. The moment the temptation to break over the rules becomes too strong, come. And—eh—by the way—eh—don’t worry about your mirror for a while.” Temporarily content with this, the new patient went away with new hope. Wiping his brow, the doctor strolled into the sitting-room where he found the family awaiting him with obvious but repressed curiosity.

“It isn’t ethical, I suppose,” said Mr. Clyde, “to discuss a patient’s case with outsiders?”

“You’re not outsiders. And she’s not my patient, in the ordinary sense, since I’m giving my services free. Moreover, I need all the help I can get.”

“What can I do?” asked Mrs. Clyde promptly. “Drop in at her house from time to time, and cheer her up. I don’t want her to depend upon me exclusively. She has depended altogether too much on doctors in the past.”

Mr. Clyde chuckled. “Did she tell you that the European medical faculty had chased her around to every spa on the Continent? Neurasthenic dyspepsia, they called it.”

“Pretty name! Seventy per cent of all dyspeptics have the seat of the imagination in the stomach. The difficulty is to divert it.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Oh, I’ve several, when the time comes. For the present I’ve got to get her around into condition.”

“Spoiled mind, spoiled body,” remarked Mrs. Sharpless.

“Exactly. And I’m going to begin on the body, because that is the easiest to set right. Look out for an ill-tempered cousin during the next fortnight.”

His prophecy was amply confirmed by Mrs. Clyde, who made it her business, amid multifarious activities, to drop in upon Miss Ennis with patient frequency. On the tenth day of the “cure,” Mrs. Clyde reported to the household physician:—

“If I go there again I shall probably slap her. She’s become simply unbearable.”

“Good!” said Dr. Strong. “Fine! She has had the nerve to stick to the rules. We needn’t overstrain her, though. I’ll have her come here tomorrow.”

Accordingly, at six o’clock in the evening of the eleventh day, the patient stamped into the office, wet, bedraggled, and angry.

“Now look!” she cried. “You made me store my motor-car. All the street-cars were crowded. My umbrella turned inside out. I’m a perfect drench. And I know I’ll catch my death of cold.” Whereupon she laid a pathetic hand on her chest and coughed hollowly.

“Stick out your foot,” ordered Dr. Strong. And, as she obeyed: “That’s well. Good, sensible storm shoes. I’ll risk your taking cold. How do you feel? Better?”

“No. Worse!” she snapped.

“I suppose so,” he retorted with a chuckle.

“What is more,” she declared savagely, “I look worse!”

“So your mirror has been failing in its mission of flattery. Too bad. Now take off your coat, sit right there by the fire, and in an hour you’ll be dry as toast.”