chairs.

"There's another damned patient," said Dr. Cautley.

He was really so eminent that he could afford to think blasphemously of
patients; and he had no love for those who came to consult him before
their time. He sat up with his irritable nerves on edge. The servant was
certainly letting somebody in, and from the soft rustling sounds in the
hall he gathered that somebody was a woman; much patience and much
politeness would then be required of him, and he was feeling anything but
patient and polite.

"Miss Rhoda Vivian" was the name on the card that was brought to him. He
did not know Miss Rhoda Vivian.

The gas-jets were turned low in the consulting-room; when he raised them
he saw a beautiful woman standing by the fire in an attitude of
impatience. He had kept her waiting; and it seemed that this adorable
person knew the value of time. She was not going to waste words either.
As it was impossible to associate her with the ordinary business of the
place, he was prepared for her terse and lucid statement of somebody
else's case. He said he would look round early in the morning (Miss
Vivian looked dissatisfied); or perhaps that evening (Miss Vivian was
dubious); or possibly at once (Miss Vivian smiled in hurried approval).
She was eager to be gone. And when she had gone he stood deliberating.
Miss Quincey was a pathological abstraction, Miss Vivian was a radiant
reality; it was clear that Miss Quincey was not urgent, and that once
safe in her bed she could very well wait till to-morrow; but when he
thought of Miss Vivian he became impressed with the gravity and interest
of Miss Quincey's case.

While the doctor was making up his mind, little Miss Quincey, in her
shabby back bedroom, lay waiting for him, trembling, fretting her nerves
into a fever, starting at imaginary footsteps, and entertaining all kinds
of dismal possibilities. She was convinced that she was going to die, or
worse still, to break down, to be a perpetual invalid. She thought of
several likely illnesses, beginning with general paralysis and ending
with anemia of the brain. It _might_ be anemia of the brain, but she
rather thought it would be general paralysis, because this would be so
much the more disagreeable of the two. Anyhow Rhoda Vivian must have
thought she was pretty bad or she would not have called in a doctor. To
call in a doctor seemed to Miss Quincey next door to invoking Providence
itself; it was the final desperate resort, implyi