"
"Path--pathologically," she echoed. "That sounds 'orrid--rather rude.
You don't like me still, _hein_, doctor?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"It surprise me ver' much," she admitted frankly. She picked up the
photograph on the table and examined it with an unconscious
impertinence. "You like 'er?" she asked. "That sort of woman?"
"I don't know," he said. "I've never met her."
"She is not your wife?"
"She is Cosgrave's wife."
It was evident that although the episode had been concluded less than
three months before she had already almost forgotten it.
"Cosgrave? _Ah oui, le cher petit Rufus_? There now--did I not tell
you? Didn't I 'ave reason? Tell me--'ow many babies 'ave 'e got?"
"They were married last month," Stonehouse observed.
"_Ah--la la_! But 'ow glad I am! I can see she is the right sort for
'im. A nice leetle girl. But first 'e 'ave to 'ave a good time--just
to give 'im confidence. Now 'e be a ver' good boy--a leetle dull
per'aps, but ver' good and 'appy. I would write and tell 'im 'ow glad
I am--but per'aps better not, _hein_?"
She winked, and there was an irresistible drollery in the grimace that
made his lips twitch. And yet she was shameless--abominable.
"The ten minutes are almost up," he said, "and I suppose you came here
to consult me."
He knew that she had not. She had come because he was a tantalizing
object, because she could not credit his invincibility, which was a
challenge to her.
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