"Yes, it is often so," Doctor Levillier answered. "Ever since the burden was lifted from my shoulders," she continued, "I have been getting steadily worse. Each month, each year, I became more and more degraded in my cowardice, my fear of trifles, even of things which have no existence at all. All this is perhaps--perhaps--peculiarly painful to me because I am naturally, you must understand, what sane people call a strong-minded woman. I had originally complete physical courage, didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear,' despised those who did, I am afraid. So you see this is very bad for me; it cuts so deep into my mind, you see. It makes me hate and loathe myself so. I sleep badly, and have the usual symptoms of nervous collapse, I believe. I'm strong one moment, feeble, no good at all, the next. My appetite has long been bad, and so on. But it isn't that sort of thing I mind. I could fight with that well enough. It's my horrible deterioration of mind that troubles me, that has brought me here, to you, in spite of my hatred of London, of every city. It was in a city, though not in London, that I bore that burden I told you of. It doesn't seem possible to me, but I'm told, and I read, that my mind diseased may be an effect, and that the cause may lie in my body. That's why I come to you. Doctor Levillier, root out the disease if you can." She ended speaking almost with passion, her lips trembling all the time and her eyes never leaving his face. Then she added with a curious characteristic abruptness: "I will tell you that I've plenty of money. Lack of funds is no weapon against my return to health--if my return is in any way possible." Doctor Levillier smiled slightly. "You are anticipating the usual 'long-sea voyage' formula, I see," he said. "Possibly." "I should not prescribe it for you off-hand," he said. "Sea air is not a specific for all nervous complaints, as some people seem to think. You have no bodily pain?" "No. I often wish I had." "What you tell me about your gradual collapse coming on after the crisis of your troubles was over, and not during it, does not surprise me. Nor am I puzzled by your malady increasing if, as I suppose, you are living idly." "I am. I have no courage to do anything or see anybody." "Exactly. You live in a sort of hiding." "Why--yes. You see, once I was well known to a good many people. My troubles became known to them too. I could not get rid of that burden I told you of except by blazoning them abroad. I shrink from meeting any people now. Therefore I live very quietly. I--" Suddenly she seemed to grow tired of the half measures in frankness that had so far governed her communications. She spread forth her hands with a very characteristic, ample gesture of sudden confidence.