HILLIARD glanced round at the ample comfort of the room, and dropping into a chair by the table took out his note-book and ran over the visits still to be paid. There were three only. He would get back in time to dress for dinner if he felt inclined, an amusement he was not often indulged with. Shutting the book, he leaned back and scrutinized his surroundings.
Books up to the ceiling. Ugh! What a good life some people led! Chairs to read them in that would speed the afternoon in the twinkling of an eye, and a big double glass door opening out on white steps that led to a heavenly garden. He stood up to look down the green alleys and stare at the bright beds,—he loved color, crass color,—and then the door opened at the other side of the room and Mr. Bagehot entered.
They had met before. They shook hands and proceeded at once to business, and, sitting opposite each other, after some talk Mr. Bagehot summed up the case.
"The truth is. Dr. Hilliard,"—he spoke slowly,—"it's just the absence of symptoms that worries me. My daughter, as I tell you, has been thoroughly examined by specialists; she has everything that I can give her,"—he glanced about,—"the house"—he waved his hand—"is run to suit her pleasure; we have a garden-party to-night,—she would have it at night, lanterns, music, and so forth; but with it all she loses steadily day by day. She used to be a plump, round, pink-cheeked little thing, now she looks as though a breath of wind might blow her away. We have travelled, we have done everything, and I come to you as a last hope. I hear you have extraordinary power of diagnosis; I beg that you will exert your faculty to the utmost. I have not told her of your visit, but she is in the house. Shall I call her?"
Hilliard hesitated a moment. "Mr. Bagehot," he answered, "in cases like this I would much rather see the person when not made conscious by acknowledged scrutiny. Will you give me the opportunity of meeting her socially and let me judge of her when she is not prepared?"
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