Presently a manservant entered and, bowing, indicated mutely that his master would see her now. She fairly ran past him through the communicating door which he held open for her passage. As she entered the inner room it was as though her coming into it set all its orderliness awry. Only the ruddy-faced specialist, intrenched behind the big table in the middle of the floor, seemed unchanged. She halted on the other side of the table and bent across it toward him, her finger tips drumming a little tattoo upon its smooth surface. He did not speak even the briefest of greetings; perhaps he was minded not to speak. He waited for her to begin. “Doctor,” she burst out, “you must do something for me; you must give me medicine--drugs--narcotics--anything that will soothe me. I did not sleep at all last night and hardly any the night before that. All night I sat up in bed or walked the floor trying to keep from screaming out--trying to keep from going mad. I have been dressed for hours--I made my maid stay up with me--waiting for your office to open so that I might come to you. Here I am--see me! See the state I am in! Doctor, you must do something for me--and do it now, quickly, before I do something desperate!” She panted out the last words. She put her clenched hands to her bosom. Her haggard eyes glared into his; their glare made the carefully applied cosmetics upon her face seem a ghastly mask. “I have already prescribed for you, madam,” the doctor said. “I told you that what you mainly needed was rest--complete and absolute rest.” “Rest? Rest! How can I rest? What chance is there for me to rest? I can't rest! If I try to rest I begin to think--and then it is worse than ever. I must keep on the go. Something drives me on--something inside me, here--to go and go, and to keep on going until I drop. Oh, doctor, you don't know what I suffer--what I have to endure. No one knows what I have to endure. No one understands. My husband doesn't understand me--my children do not, nor my friends. “Friends? I have no friends. I can't get on with any one--I quarrel with every one. I know I am sick, that I am irritable and out-of-sorts sometimes. And I know that I am self-willed and want my own way. But I've always been self-willed; it's a part of my nature. And I've always had my own way. They should appreciate that. But they don't. They cross me. At every turn somebody crosses me. The whole world seems in a conspiracy to deny me what I want. “It can't be my fault always that I am forever quarrelling with people--with my own family; with my husband's family; with every one who crosses my path. I tell you they don't understand me, doctor. They don't make allowances for my condition. If they would only make allowances! And they don't give me any consideration. I can't stand it, doctor! I can't go on like this any longer. Please--please, doctor, do something for me!”