“Yes, what day?” “As a matter of fact it was on a Monday. What’s the point? I remember because it happens to have been my Infirmary day. I had just come home, dog-tired, but of course when the call came I had to go. I actually thought what a bore it was as I pedalled up. It’s nearly all uphill from our house to Carbies. The maid looked frightened when she opened the door.” “Oh, sir, I am so glad you are here. Will you please come into the drawing-room? Mrs. Capel, she fainted right away. Miss Stevens has tried hartshorn an’ burnt feathers, everything we could think of.” “Everything that had a smell?” “Yes, sir. I perceived it as I approached the drawing-room—this room. She was on the sofa,” he looked over to it, “very pale and dishevelled, only partly conscious.” “Who was Miss Stevens?” “Her maid. Quite a character. Something like your nurse, only more so.” “What did you do?” “I felt her pulse, her heart, thought of strychnine.” “You are not a great doctor, are you?” I scoffed lightly. “Oh! I know my work all right; it’s simple enough. You try this drug or the other....” “Or none, as in my case.” “That’s right.” “And then if the patient does not get better or her relatives get restive, you call in some one else, who makes another shot.” There was a twinkle in his eye. I always thought he knew more about medicine than he pretended. “And what did you do for Margaret?” I went on. “Opened the window, and her dress; waited. The first thing she said was, ‘Has he gone?’ I did not know to whom she referred, but the maid told me primly: ‘Mrs. Capel’s publisher has been down for the week-end. He left this morning. She don’t know what she’s saying.’ Margaret opened her eyes, her sweet eyes, dark-irised, the light in them wavered and grew strong. She seemed to recall herself with difficulty and slowly. ‘Did I faint? I’m all right now. Is that you, Stevens? What happened?’ “‘I came in to bring your afternoon tea and you were in a dead faint, at the writing-table, all in a heap. I rang for cook and we carried you to the sofa, and tried to bring you round. Then cook telephoned for Dr. Lansdowne.’ “‘Are you Dr. Lansdowne?’ “‘He was out. I’m his partner, Dr. Kennedy. How are you feeling?’ I asked her. “‘Better. Stevens, you can go away. Bring me some more tea. Dr. Kennedy will have a cup with me.’ She struggled into a sitting position and I helped her. Then she told me she had always been subject to these attacks, ever since she was a child, that she was to have been a pianist, had studied seriously. But the doctors forbade her practising. Now she wrote. She admitted that her own emotional scenes overcame her. Then we talked of the emotions....” Dr. Kennedy looked at me as if enquiringly. “Do you want to hear any more?” “You saw her often after that?” “Nearly every day, all the time she was here.” “And talked about the emotions?”