“Well, yes, in a way it is. I can always bring you round. I want you to go on letting me be your doctor. You hardly had that pain a minute tonight. It is angina, you know, genuine _angina pectoris_, and I can do no end of things for it.” “You don’t mean I must always have these pains, that they will grow worse?” She grew pale and he saw he had made a mistake, hastening to reassure her. “You’ve only got to live quietly, take things easily.” “Oh, that will be all right. When I am married everything will be easy,” she said almost complacently. And then in plaintive explanation or apology added, “I bear pain so badly.” “And I may go on doctoring you?” “I don’t suppose I shall send to Pineland if I should feel not quite well,” she answered seriously. “We are going to live in London.” “I’ll come up to London. There is no difficulty about that. I’ve started reading for my M.D. I can get back to my old hospital.” She rallied him a little and then sent him away. “I shall expect to hear you are house physician when I return from my honeymoon!” “May I come up in the morning? I want to hear that attack has not recurred.” “The morning is a long way off, the night has to be got through first.” Suddenly she remembered her panic and had a faint recrudescence of fear. “I’ve so many things on my mind. I wish you could ensure me a good night.” “But I can,” he said eagerly. “I can easily.” “And without after-effects?” “Without any bad after-effects.” “The bromide! but it always makes me feel dull and stupid.” “Veronal?” “I am frightened of veronal.” “Adolin, paraldehyde, trional, a small injection of morphia?” “But it is so late. You would have to get anything from a chemist.” “No, I shouldn’t. I’ve got my case.” “Your case!” “Yes.” He showed it to her, full of strange little bottles and unknown drugs. She showed interest, asking what was this or the other, then changing her mind suddenly: “No, I won’t try any experiments. I’ll sleep, or I’ll stay awake.” “You don’t trust me?” “Indeed I do, but I distrust drugs. Unless I am in pain, then I would take anything. Tell me, can you really always help me if I get into pain? Would you? At any risk?” “At any risk to myself, not at any risk to you. But we won’t talk of pain, it mustn’t happen.” “But if it did?” she persisted. “Don’t fear, I couldn’t see you in pain.” “Yet I’ve always heard and sometimes seen how callous doctors are.” “But I’m not only a doctor....” “Hush! I thought we had agreed you were. My very good and concerned doctor. Now you really must go. Yes, you can come up in the morning.” “You will take your bromide?” “If I need it. Good-night!” Margaret slept well. But she heard from Stevens again next morning over her toilette that cook was not to be trusted, should be got rid of, that she was deceitful, had been seen, after all, with the shabby man from London.