'The pallor of my complexion is nothing,' she answered a little impatiently. 'In my early life I had a narrow escape from death by poisoning. I have never had a complexion since--and my skin is so delicate, I cannot paint without producing a hideous rash. But that is of no importance. I wanted your opinion given positively. I believed in you, and you have disappointed me.' Her head dropped on her breast. 'And so it ends!' she said to herself bitterly.
The Doctor's sympathies were touched. Perhaps it might be more correct to say that his professional pride was a little hurt. 'It may end in the right way yet,' he remarked, 'if you choose to help me.'
She looked up again with flashing eyes, 'Speak plainly,' she said. 'How can I help you?'
'Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art will do much, but not all. For example, something must have occurred-- something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health-- to frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here to consult me. Is that true?'
She clasped her hands in her lap. 'That is true!' she said eagerly. 'I begin to believe in you again.'
'Very well. You can't expect me to find out the moral cause which has alarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical cause of alarm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence) I can do no more.'
She rose, and took a turn in the room. 'Suppose I tell you?' she said. 'But, mind, I shall mention no names!'
'There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.'
'The facts are nothing,' she rejoined. 'I have only my own impressions to confess--and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you-- I will begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it, they won't do much to help you.'
She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began the strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor's ears.