I do not know that I ever entered a more delicately perfumed room--and I am very sensitive to perfumes--than the one in which Florence Campbell sat.
She arose from her deep arm-chair as I entered, and, extending her hand, grasped mine with a vigor unusual in a woman, even when she is well.
"This is Dr. Hamilton?" she said, in a clear voice, which told nothing of pain, and was wholly free from the usually querulous note struck by women who are ill, or who think that they are. "This is Dr. Hamilton? I am very glad to see you, doctor. I am Florence Campbell. You received a note from your friend, Dr. Griswold, of Chicago, and one telling how I came to send it to you--how I came into possession of it." Direct of speech, clear of voice, hand feverish, but firm in grasp, I commented mentally, as she spoke.
This is not what I had expected. This is not the limp little blonde that I had pictured, on a lounge, in tears, with the light fluffy hair in disorder, and a tone of voice which plead for sympathy. This is not the figure I had expected to see.
She stood with her back to the light, very erect and well poised.
"Come to the window," I said. "Does your head ache?" That is always a safe question to ask, you know.
She laughed. "Oh, I don't know that it does--not particularly. I fancy there is not enough inside of it to ache much. Mere bone and vacuity could not do a great deal in that line, could it, doctor?" Then she laughed again. She looked me in the eyes, and I fancied she was diagnosing _me_.
Her eyes were deep, large, and brown, or a dark gray; her complexion was dark and clear--almost too transparent; her cheeks were flushed a little; and the light in her eyes was unnaturally intense.
She was evidently trying to gain time--to take my measure.
"It is always a rather trying thing to get a new doctor; don't you think so?" she asked, with another little laugh. "I always feel so foolish to think I have called him to come for so trifling a matter as my ailments are. I am never really ill, you know," she said with nervous haste; "but I am not very strong, and so I often feel--rather--under the weather, and I always fancy that a doctor can prevent, or cure it; but I suppose he cannot. I shall really not expect a great deal of you, in that line, doctor. I cannot expect you to furnish me with robust ancestors, can I? Just so you keep me out of bed"--and here, for the first time, I noticed a slight tremor in her voice--"just keep me so that I can read, and--so that I shall not need to sit alone, and--think--I shall be quite satisfied--quite." She had turned her face away, as she said the last; but I saw that she was having a hard struggle to keep back the tears, notwithstanding the little laugh that followed.
