“Do anything for them?” “Yes. I take some harmless powders, sometimes.” “Harmless, eh? A harmless headache powder is like a mild cocktail. It doesn’t exist. So you’re adding drug habit to drink habit. Fortunately, it isn’t hard to stop. It has begun to show on you already, in that puffy grayness under the eyes. All the coal-tar powders vitiate the blood as well as affect the heart. Sleep badly?” “Very often.” “Take anything for that?” “You mean opiates? I’m not a fool, Doctor.” “You mean you haven’t gone quite that far,” said the other grimly. “You’ve started in on two habits; but not the worst. Well, that’s all. Come back when you need to.” Miss Ennis’s big, dull eyes opened wide. “Aren’t you going to give me anything? Any medicine?” “You don’t need it.” “Or any advice?” Dr. Strong permitted himself a little smile at the success of his strategy. “Give it to yourself,” he suggested. “You showed, in flashes, during the dinner talk last night, that you have both wit and sense, when you choose to use them. Do it now.” The girl squirmed uncomfortably. “I suppose you want me to give up cocktails,” she murmured in a die-away voice. “Absolutely.” “And try to get along with no stimulants at all?” “By no means. Fresh air and exercise ad lib.” “And to stop the headache powders?” “Right; go on.” “And to stop thinking about my symptoms?” “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.”