"I ask, in the first place, do you sleep as you used to?"
"I do not: but it is not because I am ill."
"Have you the appetite you once had?"
"No: but it is not because I am ill."
"You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-chain? It was my mother's, and is too small to pass the joint of my little finger. You have many a time sportively purloined it: it fitted your forefinger. Try now."
She permitted the test: the ring dropped from the wasted little hand. Louis picked it up, and re-attached it to the chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley again said:—
"It is not because I am ill."
"Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh," proceeded Moore, "but your spirits are always at ebb: besides, there is a nervous alarm in your eye—a nervous disquiet in your manner: these peculiarities were not formerly yours."
"Mr. Moore, we will pause here. You have exactly hit it: I am nervous. Now, talk of something else. What wet weather we have! Steady, pouring rain!"
"You nervous! Yes: and if Miss Keeldar is nervous, it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look nearer. The ailment is not physical: I have suspected that. It came in one moment. I know the day. I noticed the change. Your pain is mental."
