shoulders.
“I suppose I should have to,” she said.
“And Miss Pevrill would agree? ”
“I suppose so. I don’t know what she will do, or not do.”
“Have you not been friends for a long time?”
“Good heavens, no. I didn’t know her until this Swiss trip came on the map. At least, I believe I did meet her years ago, when I was small; I’m not sure about that; but she’s not really my friend. She’s a friend of my father’s.”
“Of your father’s? Surely she is a little young to be Mr. Wellis’s friend?”
Anthea shrugged her shoulders once more. “Well, he suddenly produced her when he wanted somebody to come with me. And nobody else would do. He seemed to think that she was marvellous. I suppose he’s reached the age when he likes women young.”
It was a vulgar remark, with a vulgar thought behind it, and, as soon as it was spoken, Anthea regretted it. She often did this; said or did things which she was immediately sorry for; but a streak of obstinacy in her would not apologize, would not let her retract. She knew that what she had said should be retracted, but the obstinacy held her back.
Dr. Frederic looked at her, and his dark eyes were inscrutable. He thought: Heaven preserve me from this young woman’s world and its uselessness. He felt again the reluctance to waste his time on this case, yet knew that he must for Richard Wellis’s sake.
“Well,” he said briskly, “as soon as Miss Pevrill returns, we will go to your room and make the examination.”
Diana returned almost at once, smiling when she saw Anthea, apologizing to the doctor, explaining how she had looked everywhere. Dr. Frederic looked at her as she made her explanations, saw the clothes that were suitable for the mountain, the shoes that were sensible, the air of good breeding, the general rightness of her outward appearance. He could understand that a man of Richard Wellis’s calibre and worth might well be interested in her, and fond of her, and though he lent no credence to Anthea’s wild hints, what she had said raised an unconscious barrier in the doctor’s mind between Diana and himself. She was part of this world that he had no use for.
Dr. Frederic found Anthea much improved already by the change from the Splendide. Her temperature was steadying wonderfully, and she seemed generally more calm, in spite of the boredom. He recommended brusquely that she should stay at the Morgenberg.
“A sentence of imprisonment,” said Anthea.
“You would do better,” he said stern ly, “to regard it as a message of hope. Do you realize that I have just told you you are improving? If you had been sensible in the first place, this sentence of imprisonment—as you call it—would have been unnecessary. If you are not sensible now, a worse sentence will have to be passed. You have a very good chance here, and if you do not wish to go on to a hospital or a sanatorium, you will do well to appreciate it.”
Anthea looked down sulkily.
“Come,” he said. “I am sure you are too sensible at heart not to feel what is best for you. I will give you an ultimatum. You do your best and co-operate, and I will also do my best. If you will not co-operate, then I cannot accept you as a patient.”
“In that case,” said Anthea, “there is no choice.”
“You will co-operate?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Excellent. Then let us hear no more nonsense about boredom. Now, we have an invitation to coffee with my dear old friend, Madame de Luzy, and I shall expect to see you eating all the creamiest cakes.”
They all went downstairs, and on to the balcony where Madame de Luzy was waiting for them at the shady end. The cakes the doctor had mentioned, heaped with whipped cream from the dairy, were already waiting, and the waitress soon brought the coffee. They gathered about the table.
“It is a pity we cannot persuade you to stay to dinner,” said the old lady. “It is always such a great pleasure to me when you remember to
“I suppose I should have to,” she said.
“And Miss Pevrill would agree? ”
“I suppose so. I don’t know what she will do, or not do.”
“Have you not been friends for a long time?”
“Good heavens, no. I didn’t know her until this Swiss trip came on the map. At least, I believe I did meet her years ago, when I was small; I’m not sure about that; but she’s not really my friend. She’s a friend of my father’s.”
“Of your father’s? Surely she is a little young to be Mr. Wellis’s friend?”
Anthea shrugged her shoulders once more. “Well, he suddenly produced her when he wanted somebody to come with me. And nobody else would do. He seemed to think that she was marvellous. I suppose he’s reached the age when he likes women young.”
It was a vulgar remark, with a vulgar thought behind it, and, as soon as it was spoken, Anthea regretted it. She often did this; said or did things which she was immediately sorry for; but a streak of obstinacy in her would not apologize, would not let her retract. She knew that what she had said should be retracted, but the obstinacy held her back.
Dr. Frederic looked at her, and his dark eyes were inscrutable. He thought: Heaven preserve me from this young woman’s world and its uselessness. He felt again the reluctance to waste his time on this case, yet knew that he must for Richard Wellis’s sake.
“Well,” he said briskly, “as soon as Miss Pevrill returns, we will go to your room and make the examination.”
Diana returned almost at once, smiling when she saw Anthea, apologizing to the doctor, explaining how she had looked everywhere. Dr. Frederic looked at her as she made her explanations, saw the clothes that were suitable for the mountain, the shoes that were sensible, the air of good breeding, the general rightness of her outward appearance. He could understand that a man of Richard Wellis’s calibre and worth might well be interested in her, and fond of her, and though he lent no credence to Anthea’s wild hints, what she had said raised an unconscious barrier in the doctor’s mind between Diana and himself. She was part of this world that he had no use for.
Dr. Frederic found Anthea much improved already by the change from the Splendide. Her temperature was steadying wonderfully, and she seemed generally more calm, in spite of the boredom. He recommended brusquely that she should stay at the Morgenberg.
“A sentence of imprisonment,” said Anthea.
“You would do better,” he said stern ly, “to regard it as a message of hope. Do you realize that I have just told you you are improving? If you had been sensible in the first place, this sentence of imprisonment—as you call it—would have been unnecessary. If you are not sensible now, a worse sentence will have to be passed. You have a very good chance here, and if you do not wish to go on to a hospital or a sanatorium, you will do well to appreciate it.”
Anthea looked down sulkily.
“Come,” he said. “I am sure you are too sensible at heart not to feel what is best for you. I will give you an ultimatum. You do your best and co-operate, and I will also do my best. If you will not co-operate, then I cannot accept you as a patient.”
“In that case,” said Anthea, “there is no choice.”
“You will co-operate?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Excellent. Then let us hear no more nonsense about boredom. Now, we have an invitation to coffee with my dear old friend, Madame de Luzy, and I shall expect to see you eating all the creamiest cakes.”
They all went downstairs, and on to the balcony where Madame de Luzy was waiting for them at the shady end. The cakes the doctor had mentioned, heaped with whipped cream from the dairy, were already waiting, and the waitress soon brought the coffee. They gathered about the table.
“It is a pity we cannot persuade you to stay to dinner,” said the old lady. “It is always such a great pleasure to me when you remember to
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