Her lips curled superciliously. “I’m not given to perspiration, I’m thankful to—” “Did I say ‘perspire’?” inquired he. “I understood myself to say ‘sweat.’ Have you ever—” “No.” “High time you began. Buy yourself the heaviest sweater you can find—you may call it a ‘perspirationer’ if you think the salesman will appreciate your delicacy—and I’ll be around to-morrow and set up a punching-bag for you.” “What is that?” “A device which you strike at. The blow forces it against a board and it returns and, unless you dodge nimbly, impinges upon your countenance. In other words, whacks you on the nose. Prizefighters use it.” “I suppose you want me to be like a prizefighter.” “The most beautiful pink-and-white skin and the clearest eye I’ve ever seen belonged to a middleweight champion. Yes, I’d like to see you exactly like him in that respect. One hour every day—” “I simply can’t. I shan’t have time. With the walking I do now I’m busy all the morning and dead tired all the afternoon; and in the evening there is my bridge club—” “Ah, you play bridge. For money?” “Naturally we don’t play for counters.” “Well, I’d give it up.” “You are not employed as a censor of my morals, Dr. Strong.” “No; but I’ve undertaken to censor your nerves. And gambling, for a woman in your condition, is altogether too much of a strain.” The corners of Miss Ennis’s mouth quivered babyishly. “I’m sure, then, that working like a prizefighter will be too much strain. You’re wearing me out.” “I’m a cruel tyrant,” mocked Dr. Strong; “and worse is to come. We’ll clear out a room in your house and put in not only the punching-bag, but also pulleys and a rowing-machine. And I’ll send up an athletic instructor to see that you use them.” “I won’t have him. I’ll send him away!” “By advice of your mirror?” Miss Ennis frankly and angrily wept. “Now I’ll tell you a secret about yourself.” Miss Ennis stopped weeping. “Ninety-nine cases out of a hundred I couldn’t handle as I am handling your case. They would need a month’s rest and building up before they’d be fit for real work. But you are naturally a powerful, muscular woman with great physical endurance and resiliency. What I am trying to do is to take advantage of your splendid equipment to pull you out.” “What would you do with the ordinary case?” asked the girl, interested. “Oh, put her to bed, perhaps. Perhaps send her away to the woods. Maybe set a nurse over her to see that she didn’t take to writing her symptoms down in a book. Keep her on a rigid diet, and build her up by slow and dull processes. You may thank your stars that—” “I don’t thank my stars at all!” broke in the patient, as her besetting vice of self-pity asserted itself. “I’d much rather do that than be driven like a galley-slave. I’m too tired to get any pleasure out of anything—” “Even bridge?” interposed the tormentor softly. “—and when night comes I fall into bed like a helpless log.”