they are only pretending?”
“When you find out what is at stake. Understand their purpose, and you’ve the reason for their behaviour. You’ve got to be very sure of that, however. There are plenty of real illnesses with sudden recoveries.”
She was silent for almost a minute by his watch. He kept his eyes on her, but she didn’t notice. He wondered what thoughts were following each other in quick succession behind her set face.
At last she said, “Supposing someone’s health had always been good, supposing he suddenly became dangerously ill— something that puzzled doctors and nurses—and then, after he had got what he wanted, supposing he became well again, and stayed well just because he had won so completely, then—” Her voice trailed away. She was watching him, wide-eyed. Her own words had frightened her.
Dr. Formby said nothing for a moment. He was disturbed: the conversation had slipped away from smooth generalities on to much more difficult ground. “Mrs. Pleydell, you’re worrying now about something you didn’t even imagine when you came to see me. Isn’t that right?... Well, I think we’d better set it all straight. There’s no good carrying away any false ideas.”
She bent her head. Her hands twisted her gloves.
“I’m your doctor, and a doctor cures more things than colds and fever. Why don’t you tell me what’s worrying you?”
“No. Not just now.” She stood up. “I’ve got to think about it, myself. Perhaps I am wrong. I could be wrong. Thank you, Dr. Formby.”
“Now, I’m worried,” he said, following her to the door.
“You mustn’t be. You’ve helped me so much. You see, it is important to me to know just exactly what happened in—in the case I told you about. Thank you,” she said again. And she looked more calm, more confident, than when she had just entered the consulting room.
He let her go, in silence. “Just a minute,” he told the nurse. “Tell the next patient to wait.” And with his quick, short step he went to the filing cabinet and picked out a folder. Pleydell, Payton. Here were all the details. Dr. Formby’s eye translated them briefly. First treated as a patient in 1935 for grippe. Previous medical records all excellent. After 1935, there had been yearly check-ups, all normal. In 1936—vaccination. 1940—sprained wrist. 1942—head cold. 1943—vaccination. 1945—illness unknown, possible breakdown, serious. And since then, nothing but one attack of grippe.
Dr. Formby studied the entry under 1945 more fully. Two specialists had been called in. No positive diagnosis from them, either. The patient had seemed seriously ill though. Great care had been taken. And then suddenly, he had made a splendid recovery. No bad effects, whatsoever.
He was beginning to remember a detail. Mrs. Pleydell had to stay beside the patient. Even with nurses there, she had to stay. And within three weeks Pleydell was better.
The nurse came in again. “I’ll see the next patient, now,” he said.
“Mr. Pleydell’s secretary is calling to get your report on his wife. My, he must be a fond husband!”
Dr. Formby slipped the folder back into the file. “Say that Mrs. Pleydell is in good health. But that I recommend a vacation for a few weeks.” He frowned. “And you might try to get Mrs. Pleydell on the ’phone as soon as she reaches home. I’d like to see her again. Do it kindly. I don’t want to scare her away.”
Or perhaps it’s Pleydell I ought to see, he thought wearily, and then turned to the frightened small boy with the swollen neck who was being led into the room by his equally frightened mother.
* * *
Sylvia came out into the late afternoon sunshine, stood on the broad sidewalk of Sixteenth Street. She hesitated as if she were a stranger, and turned north. Then, suddenly aware of the long expanse of handsome houses and legations and churches that stretched endlessly in front of her, she halted and retraced her steps. She was grateful that
“When you find out what is at stake. Understand their purpose, and you’ve the reason for their behaviour. You’ve got to be very sure of that, however. There are plenty of real illnesses with sudden recoveries.”
She was silent for almost a minute by his watch. He kept his eyes on her, but she didn’t notice. He wondered what thoughts were following each other in quick succession behind her set face.
At last she said, “Supposing someone’s health had always been good, supposing he suddenly became dangerously ill— something that puzzled doctors and nurses—and then, after he had got what he wanted, supposing he became well again, and stayed well just because he had won so completely, then—” Her voice trailed away. She was watching him, wide-eyed. Her own words had frightened her.
Dr. Formby said nothing for a moment. He was disturbed: the conversation had slipped away from smooth generalities on to much more difficult ground. “Mrs. Pleydell, you’re worrying now about something you didn’t even imagine when you came to see me. Isn’t that right?... Well, I think we’d better set it all straight. There’s no good carrying away any false ideas.”
She bent her head. Her hands twisted her gloves.
“I’m your doctor, and a doctor cures more things than colds and fever. Why don’t you tell me what’s worrying you?”
“No. Not just now.” She stood up. “I’ve got to think about it, myself. Perhaps I am wrong. I could be wrong. Thank you, Dr. Formby.”
“Now, I’m worried,” he said, following her to the door.
“You mustn’t be. You’ve helped me so much. You see, it is important to me to know just exactly what happened in—in the case I told you about. Thank you,” she said again. And she looked more calm, more confident, than when she had just entered the consulting room.
He let her go, in silence. “Just a minute,” he told the nurse. “Tell the next patient to wait.” And with his quick, short step he went to the filing cabinet and picked out a folder. Pleydell, Payton. Here were all the details. Dr. Formby’s eye translated them briefly. First treated as a patient in 1935 for grippe. Previous medical records all excellent. After 1935, there had been yearly check-ups, all normal. In 1936—vaccination. 1940—sprained wrist. 1942—head cold. 1943—vaccination. 1945—illness unknown, possible breakdown, serious. And since then, nothing but one attack of grippe.
Dr. Formby studied the entry under 1945 more fully. Two specialists had been called in. No positive diagnosis from them, either. The patient had seemed seriously ill though. Great care had been taken. And then suddenly, he had made a splendid recovery. No bad effects, whatsoever.
He was beginning to remember a detail. Mrs. Pleydell had to stay beside the patient. Even with nurses there, she had to stay. And within three weeks Pleydell was better.
The nurse came in again. “I’ll see the next patient, now,” he said.
“Mr. Pleydell’s secretary is calling to get your report on his wife. My, he must be a fond husband!”
Dr. Formby slipped the folder back into the file. “Say that Mrs. Pleydell is in good health. But that I recommend a vacation for a few weeks.” He frowned. “And you might try to get Mrs. Pleydell on the ’phone as soon as she reaches home. I’d like to see her again. Do it kindly. I don’t want to scare her away.”
Or perhaps it’s Pleydell I ought to see, he thought wearily, and then turned to the frightened small boy with the swollen neck who was being led into the room by his equally frightened mother.
* * *
Sylvia came out into the late afternoon sunshine, stood on the broad sidewalk of Sixteenth Street. She hesitated as if she were a stranger, and turned north. Then, suddenly aware of the long expanse of handsome houses and legations and churches that stretched endlessly in front of her, she halted and retraced her steps. She was grateful that
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