impatiently, to David’s recital.
David began by describing the changes in Sara in the last two months; the growing lack of interest that finally became listlessness; its change, with almost clocklike regularity, to nervousness that took her on lonely walks.
She had grown thinner; had lost appetite; yet there seemed to be no physical pain, for she made no complaint.
He told of the Halloween visit; how, since that night, her irritability had trebled.
“She goes back there,” he said, and he described his vigil.
Dr. Hardt shifted his position with impatience.
“She goes back there?” he repeated. “Well, why?”
“I don’t know. But you and I know that no young woman of good breeding messes around in that part of town.”
“Unless she is addicted to drugs,” Hardt said.
“I wasn’t aware that dipsomaniacs go in for narcotics.”
Hardt did not smile.
“Not normally.”
“Well?”
Dr. Hardt picked up a pencil and began to tap it on the desk. And then he began to tap it thoughtfully against his teeth.
“If I return,” he said, “will you guarantee she won’t be drunk?”
David considered. He remembered that Sara had passed two saloons and had stepped into a cab.
“Yes,” he said. He reached for the telephone and made arrangements with Pierre.
It was eleven o’clock when Dr. Hardt took his departure from Fountain Head. He had watched with interest Sara’s reaction when she learned David was staying for dinner. Her eyes smouldered with a fury for which David had found no words that afternoon save to term them maniacal. And Hardt was not so sure but what David was right.
And then the fire went out and the eyes froze. And Sara, throughout the meal, seemed unaware of David. She had paid little attention to her food, save for the meat course.
She had sipped her wine sparingly. But—and Pierre noticed this with increasing complacency: and David, with wonder—she chatted brightly with Hardt throughout the entire hour.
Hardt considered, with the analytical detachment essential to his trade, that somehow she had divined the reason for his visit; that some super-intelligence (not uncommon in certain types of insanity) had warned her that he and she were pitted against each other as antagonists; and that, being a woman, she had thought to use her charm to throw him off the scent.
It might, of course, have been Hardt's imagination. He was prone to look upon each of his cases as a contest between the patient and himself, in which each sought to outwit the other. He had little time for the practitioner who approached the problem by attempting to gain the confidence and friendship of the diseased. There was a natural enmity there, he felt, and the more honest one was about it, the sounder the final cure.
Sara left them to themselves after the dessert. When they found her in the library, she had changed again. At first, it seemed to be reserve; but later, Hardt saw that she seemed to be listening for something. He saw a certain tenseness of muscle take her. It was revealed in her hands, which she gripped so tightly in her lap that the blood left them. And then the tenseness melted away before impatience. The fingers entwined themselves and released themselves and re-entwined themselves. Finally, without a word, she got up, threw a wrap about her shoulders and went outdoors.
Hardt, who had been prepared, after talking with David, to see physical fatigue (and indeed there were deep hollows under her eyes) was surprised when he moved to the French doors. Across the lawn he saw Sara striding with catlike agility.
He shrugged into his topcoat, and stood for a moment in the wide hall, fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette. He found one and inserted it between his lips and started fumbling for a match.
David said, “Well?”
Pierre looked up with gentle expectation.
But Dr. Hardt said savagely,
David began by describing the changes in Sara in the last two months; the growing lack of interest that finally became listlessness; its change, with almost clocklike regularity, to nervousness that took her on lonely walks.
She had grown thinner; had lost appetite; yet there seemed to be no physical pain, for she made no complaint.
He told of the Halloween visit; how, since that night, her irritability had trebled.
“She goes back there,” he said, and he described his vigil.
Dr. Hardt shifted his position with impatience.
“She goes back there?” he repeated. “Well, why?”
“I don’t know. But you and I know that no young woman of good breeding messes around in that part of town.”
“Unless she is addicted to drugs,” Hardt said.
“I wasn’t aware that dipsomaniacs go in for narcotics.”
Hardt did not smile.
“Not normally.”
“Well?”
Dr. Hardt picked up a pencil and began to tap it on the desk. And then he began to tap it thoughtfully against his teeth.
“If I return,” he said, “will you guarantee she won’t be drunk?”
David considered. He remembered that Sara had passed two saloons and had stepped into a cab.
“Yes,” he said. He reached for the telephone and made arrangements with Pierre.
It was eleven o’clock when Dr. Hardt took his departure from Fountain Head. He had watched with interest Sara’s reaction when she learned David was staying for dinner. Her eyes smouldered with a fury for which David had found no words that afternoon save to term them maniacal. And Hardt was not so sure but what David was right.
And then the fire went out and the eyes froze. And Sara, throughout the meal, seemed unaware of David. She had paid little attention to her food, save for the meat course.
She had sipped her wine sparingly. But—and Pierre noticed this with increasing complacency: and David, with wonder—she chatted brightly with Hardt throughout the entire hour.
Hardt considered, with the analytical detachment essential to his trade, that somehow she had divined the reason for his visit; that some super-intelligence (not uncommon in certain types of insanity) had warned her that he and she were pitted against each other as antagonists; and that, being a woman, she had thought to use her charm to throw him off the scent.
It might, of course, have been Hardt's imagination. He was prone to look upon each of his cases as a contest between the patient and himself, in which each sought to outwit the other. He had little time for the practitioner who approached the problem by attempting to gain the confidence and friendship of the diseased. There was a natural enmity there, he felt, and the more honest one was about it, the sounder the final cure.
Sara left them to themselves after the dessert. When they found her in the library, she had changed again. At first, it seemed to be reserve; but later, Hardt saw that she seemed to be listening for something. He saw a certain tenseness of muscle take her. It was revealed in her hands, which she gripped so tightly in her lap that the blood left them. And then the tenseness melted away before impatience. The fingers entwined themselves and released themselves and re-entwined themselves. Finally, without a word, she got up, threw a wrap about her shoulders and went outdoors.
Hardt, who had been prepared, after talking with David, to see physical fatigue (and indeed there were deep hollows under her eyes) was surprised when he moved to the French doors. Across the lawn he saw Sara striding with catlike agility.
He shrugged into his topcoat, and stood for a moment in the wide hall, fumbling in his pockets for a cigarette. He found one and inserted it between his lips and started fumbling for a match.
David said, “Well?”
Pierre looked up with gentle expectation.
But Dr. Hardt said savagely,
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