“Only one: the address of a freckle and blemish remover.” “We’ll come to that later. Meantime—” He tossed the book into the heart of the coal fire where it promptly curled up and perished. “Why—why—why—” gasped the visitor,—“how dare you? What do you mean? That is an ivory-bound, gold-mounted book. It’s valuable.” “I told you, I believe, that the treatment would be expensive. This is only the beginning. Of all outrageous, unforgivable kinds of self-coddling, the hypochondria that keeps its own autobiography is the worst.” Regrettable though it is to chronicle, Miss Ennis hereupon emitted a semi-yelp of rage and beat the floor with her high French heels. Instantly the doctor’s gaze shifted to her feet. Just how it happened she could not remember, but her right foot, unprotected, presently hit the floor with a painful thump, while the physician contemplated the shoe which he had deftly removed therefrom. “Two inches and a half at least, that heel,” he observed. “Talk about the Chinese women torturing their feet!” He laid the offending article upon the hearth, set his own soundly shod foot upon it, and tweaked off two inches of heel with the fire-tongs. “Not so pretty,” he remarked, “but at least you can walk, and not tittup in that. Give me the other.” Shocked and astounded into helplessness, she mechanically obeyed. He performed his rough-and-ready repairs, and handed it back to her. “Speaking of walking,” he said calmly, “have you stored your automobile yet?” “No! I—I—I—” “After to-morrow I don’t want you to set foot in it. Now, then, we’re going to put you through a course of questioning. Ready?” Miss Ennis settled back in her chair, with the anticipatory expression of one to whom the recital of her own woe is a lingering pleasure. “Perhaps if I told you,” she began, “just how I feel—” “Never mind that. Do you drink?” “No!” The answer came back on the rebound. “Humph!” Dr. Strong leaned over her. She turned her head away. “You asked me as if you meant I was a drunkard,” she complained. “Once in a while, when I have some severe nervous strain to undergo, I need a stimulant.” “Oh. Cocktail?” “Yes. A mild one.” “A mild cocktail! That’s a paradox I’ve never encountered. How often do you take these mild cocktails?” “Oh, just occasionally.” “Well, a meal is an occasion. Before meals?” “Sometimes,” she admitted reluctantly. “You didn’t have one here last night.” “No.” “And you ate almost nothing.” “That is just it, you see. I need something: otherwise I have no appetite.” “In other words, you have formed a drink habit.” “Oh, Dr. Strong!” It was half reproach, half insulted innocence, that wail. “After a cocktail—or two—or three,” he looked at her closely, but she would not meet his eyes, “you eat pretty well?” “Yes, I suppose so.” “And then go to bed with a headache because you’ve stimulated your appetite to more food than your run-down mechanism can rightly handle.” “I do have a good many headaches.”