“As you are called in consultation by other physicians in every State of the Union, I’m not worrying about your financial condition,” retorted Duncan, examining the famous alienist carefully in his turn. “I’m much more concerned over your health--how are you these days?” “Splendid, never felt better.” Six years before Paul Potter had suffered a severe nervous breakdown from overwork, and he had accompanied Duncan on a trip to China, where the latter went to attend to some business for his father, who was one of the largest importers from that country. Potter was some fifteen years Duncan’s senior, but they were congenial in their tastes, and after a year’s sojourn in China had, on their return, traveled together in other countries. “Are you still as confirmed a bachelor as ever, Duncan? Or is there a ‘not impossible she’ in the background?” “Still a bachelor,” admitted Duncan. “I am doubly glad to have you in Washington now on my mother’s account.” “I was just going to ask for her,” and Potter’s manner became serious. “How is she?” “In many respects much better, but she is far from strong.” “I am sorry indeed to hear that,” in quick sympathy. “Is she still troubled with mysophobia?” “To a limited degree.” Duncan accepted the cigar offered him, and settled back in his chair. “Mother no longer insists on washing her own knives and forks, and takes her meals with us if no company is present; but she still has her dread of soiled money.” “That also may wear off in time,” said the physician reflectively. “Is her general health good?” “Except for valvular weakness of the heart. Poor little mother!” Duncan paused and cleared his throat. “Curious she should have developed such a morbid fear of contact with dirt.” “You must remember the human mind is a wonderful piece of mechanism, so delicately adjusted that the slightest jar throws it out of gear. That frightful railroad accident, in which your mother was half killed, was chiefly responsible for her mental condition afterwards. I am delighted to hear that she is improving.” “Mother insists on leading the life of a hermit, hardly sees anyone outside the family. Do you think it is good for her to be so much alone?” “It is not good for anyone to shun their fellowmen,” responded Potter decidedly. “Keep your mother interested in present-day matters. I should think your pretty sister could manage that.” “Mother turned Janet over to an official chaperon.” “Hard on your sister,” commented Potter sympathetically. “And not wise for your mother; having shifted her responsibilities, she’ll feel at liberty to indulge her morbid tendencies.” “Exactly.” Duncan puffed nervously at his cigar. “Mother did not pick out the usual type of chaperon for Janet, so your sympathies for my sister are wasted.” “Good. Janet has changed very little; as I remember she was a pretty schoolgirl, now she is an exquisitely pretty débutante.”