“What’s your plan?” “Oh, I’ve several, when the time comes. For the present I’ve got to get her around into condition.” “Spoiled mind, spoiled body,” remarked Mrs. Sharpless. “Exactly. And I’m going to begin on the body, because that is the easiest to set right. Look out for an ill-tempered cousin during the next fortnight.” His prophecy was amply confirmed by Mrs. Clyde, who made it her business, amid multifarious activities, to drop in upon Miss Ennis with patient frequency. On the tenth day of the “cure,” Mrs. Clyde reported to the household physician:— “If I go there again I shall probably _slap_ her. She’s become simply unbearable.” “Good!” said Dr. Strong. “Fine! She has had the nerve to stick to the rules. We needn’t overstrain her, though. I’ll have her come here tomorrow.” Accordingly, at six o’clock in the evening of the eleventh day, the patient stamped into the office, wet, bedraggled, and angry. “Now look!” she cried. “You made me store my motor-car. All the street-cars were crowded. My umbrella turned inside out. I’m a perfect drench. And I know I’ll catch my death of cold.” Whereupon she laid a pathetic hand on her chest and coughed hollowly. “Stick out your foot,” ordered Dr. Strong. And, as she obeyed: “That’s well. Good, sensible storm shoes. I’ll risk your taking cold. How do you feel? Better?” “No. Worse!” she snapped. “I suppose so,” he retorted with a chuckle. “What is more,” she declared savagely, “I look worse!” “So your mirror has been failing in its mission of flattery. Too bad. Now take off your coat, sit right there by the fire, and in an hour you’ll be dry as toast.” “An hour? I can’t stay an hour!” “Why not?” “It’s six o’clock. I must go home. Besides,” she added unguardedly, “I’m half starved.” “_Indeed!_ Had a cocktail to-day?” “No. Certainly not.” “Yet you have an appetite. A bad sign. Oh, a very bad sign—for the cocktail market.” “I’m so tired all the time. And I wake up in the morning with hardly any strength to get out of bed—” “Or the inclination? Which?” broke in the doctor. “And my heart gives the queerest jumps and—” “Thought we’d thrown that symptom-book into the fire. Stand up, please.” She stood. Dr. Strong noted with satisfaction how, already, the lithe and well-set figure had begun to revert to its natural pose, showing that the muscles were beginning to do their work. He also noted that the hands, hitherto a mere _mélange_ of nervously writhing fingers, hung easily slack. “Your troubles,” he said pleasantly, “have only just begun. I think you’re strong enough now to begin work.” “I’m not,” she protested, half weeping. “I feel faint this minute.” “Good, healthy hunger. Of course, if a glance in your mirror convinces you that you’ve had enough of the treatment—” Miss Ennis said something under her breath which sounded very much like “Brute!” “Have you ever had a good sweat?” he asked abruptly.