“My dear,” Katya said, “Ellida’s everything in the matter. At any rate, if I’m going to do you any good, it’s she that’s got me here. I shouldn’t have done it for Robert Grimshaw.” Pauline turned slightly pale. “You haven’t quarrelled with Robert?” she said. “I should be so sorry.” “My dear,” Katya answered, “never mention his name to me again. It’s only for you I’m here, because what Ellida told me has made me like you;” and then she asked to see the patient. Dudley Leicester, got into evening dress as he was by Saunders and Mr. Held every evening, sat, blond and healthy to all seeming, sunk in the eternal arm-chair, his fingers beating an eternal tattoo, his eyes fixed upon vacancy. His appearance was so exactly natural that it was impossible to believe he was in any “condition” at all. It was so impossible to believe it that when, with a precision that seemed to add many years to her age, Katya Lascarides approached, and, bending over him, touched with the tips of her fingers little and definite points on his temples and brows, touching them and retouching them as if she were fingering a rounded wind-instrument, and that, when she asked: “Doesn’t that make your head feel better?” it seemed merely normal that his right hand should come up from the ceaseless drumming on the arm of the chair to touch her wrist, and that plaintively his voice should say: “Much better; oh, much better!” And Pauline and Mr. Held said simultaneously: “He isn’t ...” “Oh, he isn’t cured,” Katya said. “This is only a part of the process. It’s to get him to like me, to make him have confidence in me, so that I can get to know something about him. Now, go away. I can’t give you any verdict till I’ve studied him.” PART V I IN the intervals of running from hotel to hotel--for Robert Grimshaw had taken it for granted that Ellida was right, and that Katya had gone either to the old hotel where she had stayed with Mrs. Van Husum, and where they knew she had left the heavier part of her belongings--Robert Grimshaw looked in to tell Pauline that he hadn’t yet been able to fix things up with Katya Lascarides, but that he was certainly going to do so, and would fetch her along that afternoon. In himself he felt some doubt of how he was going to find Katya. At the Norfolk Street hotel he had heard that she had called in for two or three minutes the night before in order to change her clothes--he remembered that she was wearing her light grey dress and a linen sun-hat--and that then she had gone out, saying that she was going to a patient’s, and might or might not come back. “This afternoon,” he repeated, “I’ll bring her along.” Pauline looked at his face attentively. “Don’t you know where she is?” she said incredulously, and then she added, as if with a sudden desolation: “Have you quarrelled as much as all that?” “How did you know I don’t know where she is?” Grimshaw answered swiftly. “She hasn’t been attacking you?”