Part 42

“You are not employed as a censor of my morals, Dr. Strong.”

“No; but I’ve undertaken to censor your nerves. And gambling, for a woman in your condition, is altogether too much of a strain.”

The corners of Miss Ennis’s mouth quivered babyishly. “I’m sure, then, that working like a prizefighter will be too much strain. You’re wearing me out.”

“I’m a cruel tyrant,” mocked Dr. Strong; “and worse is to come. We’ll clear out a room in your house and put in not only the punching-bag, but also pulleys and a rowing-machine. And I’ll send up an athletic instructor to see that you use them.”

“I won’t have him. I’ll send him away!”

“By advice of your mirror?”

Miss Ennis frankly and angrily wept.

“Now I’ll tell you a secret about yourself.” Miss Ennis stopped weeping.

“Ninety-nine cases out of a hundred I couldn’t handle as I am handling your case. They would need a month’s rest and building up before they’d be fit for real work. But you are naturally a powerful, muscular woman with great physical endurance and resiliency. What I am trying to do is to take advantage of your splendid equipment to pull you out.”

“What would you do with the ordinary case?” asked the girl, interested.

“Oh, put her to bed, perhaps. Perhaps send her away to the woods. Maybe set a nurse over her to see that she didn’t take to writing her symptoms down in a book. Keep her on a rigid diet, and build her up by slow and dull processes. You may thank your stars that—”

“I don’t thank my stars at all!” broke in the patient, as her besetting vice of self-pity asserted itself. “I’d much rather do that than be driven like a galley-slave. I’m too tired to get any pleasure out of anything—”

“Even bridge?” interposed the tormentor softly.

“—and when night comes I fall into bed like a helpless log.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard yet. You’re progressing. Now take that new appetite of yours home to dinner. And don’t spoil it by eating too fast. Good-night.”

Fully a fortnight later Grandma Sharpless met Dr. Strong in the hallway as he came in from a walk.

“What have you been doing to Louise Ennis?” she demanded.

“Lots of things. What’s wrong now? Another fit of the sulks?”

“Worse,” said the old lady in a stage whisper. “She’s got paint on her face.”

Dr. Strong laughed. “Really? It might be worse. In fact, as a symptom, it couldn’t be better.”

“Young man, do you mean to tell me that face-paint is a good thing for a young woman?”

“Oh, no. It’s vulgar and tawdry, as a practice. But I’m glad to know that Miss Ennis has turned to it, because it shows that she recognizes her own improvement and is trying to add to it.”

“But the stuff will ruin her skin,” cried the scandalized old lady. “See what dreadful faces women have who use it. Look at the actresses—”

“Well, look at them!” broke in the physician. “There is no class of women in the world with such beautiful skin as the women of the stage. And that in spite of hard work, doubtful habits of eating, and irregular hours. Do you know why?”

“I suppose you’ll tell me that paint does it,” said Mrs. Sharpless with a sniff.

“Not the paint itself. But the fact that in putting it on and taking it off, they maintain a profound cleanliness of skin which the average woman doesn’t even understand. The real value of the successful skin-lotions and creams so widely exploited lies in the massage which their use compels.”

“Aside from the stuff on her face,” remarked Mrs. Sharpless, “Louise looks like another woman, and acts like one. She came breezing in here like a young cyclone.”

“Which means trouble,” sighed Dr. Strong. “Now that her vitality is returning, it will demand something to feed on. Well, we shall see.”