I Could Go on Singing by John D. MacDonald Page A

distinguished-looking man. His features are stronger. He looks fit. Going gray at the temples and over the ears. And, of course, that damned British control. I think they take their men out someplace at age thirty and pump their faces full of cement.”
    She had looked up at him and said, “David …?”
    “How are you, Jenny?”
    “Is this terribly inconvenient?”
    “I don’t think so. Come on up.”
    She went up and David took her coat and handed it to Miss Plimpton who carried it along the upper corridor and into the consulting room. Behind David Jenny saw a door partially open and beyond it a fire in a hearth, comfortable chairs. Jenny moved toward it and said, “Through here?”
    David had effortlessly politely blocked her way. “That’s for social calls. You did want to see me professionally, did you now?”
    “Yes, doctor. A business call.”
    “Then we go this way, please.” He led the way to the consulting room, where Miss Plimpton stood by the examination chair, under the cold bright medical lighting. He led Jenny over to his desk, seated her, took out a card. “Now if you will tell me what is wrong.” He looked poised, sympathetic and absolutely neutral.
    “I suppose you were surprised to hear from me.”
    “A little,” he said, and made a notation on the card. “You sang this evening. Charity concert, wasn’t it? How did it go?”
    “Ghastly.”
    “Of course. That means you were good.”
    “No. It’s true. My throat was raw. I couldn’t produce anything. I couldn’t swallow.” She glanced at Miss Plimpton. “Am I keeping your nurse?”
    “No. She works here.”
    “But this is really awfully late for her, isn’t it?”
    “Please tell me the rest of your symptoms. It’s rather late for all of us, I suspect.”
    “I … I suddenly felt scared I was losing my voice, David.”
    “When did that fear start?”
    “When? Oh … since I got to England. And don’t tell me it’s the climate. I thrive on this kind of climate.”
    “This is something which has happened previously?”
    “Years ago.”
    “In Europe?”
    “In New York. And my voice did go. And a young English doctor who just happened to be studying there at the time cured me.”
    David stopped writing and studied her for a long expressionless moment. “I believe we should have a look. Would you come this way, please?”
    She sat in the examination chair. He put on the reflector mirror and picked up the speculum. “How are your sinuses?”
    “I guess you’ll have to tell me.”
    He tilted her head back gently, dilated her nostrils in turn with the instrument, examined her. “Any colds recently? Hoarseness?”
    “No.”
    “You used to have colds frequently as I recall.”
    “I take vitamins.”
    He handed the speculum to Miss Plimpton and she gave him a tongue depressor.
    “Open your mouth widely, please.”
    “You’ve gotten gray, David.”
    “I’m an old man. Open your mouth.” He inspected her throat, made her say ah. “Now,” he said, “we shall have a look at the larynx.” Miss Plimpton had warmed the laryngeal mirror over a spirit lamp and tested it on her wrist before handing it to David. “You remember the proced …”
    “I can remember it without liking it. Stick out my tongue, concentrate on breathing quietly in and out through my mouth, and you hold my tongue with that nasty piece of gauze. Yes indeed, I remember I shall relax, David dear, and think of something pleasant.”
    When he had finished and put the mirror aside, she said, “Would you like to know what I was thinking about?”
    He walked around behind her and began gently fingering the glands and muscles of her neck and throat. “Tell me if you feel any pain.”
    “I was thinking of Atlantic City. Do you ever think of Atlantic City? Would you call it a pleasant thought, David?”
    “Perhaps. Does this give you any pain?”
    “N-No.”
    “Swallow, please. Thank you.” He walked around in front of her.
    “Am I going to lose