"Your day of work, ends--?"

"At six, as a rule."

"I mustn't keep you. The truth is this. I am losing my zest for life,
and because I am losing my zest, I am losing my power over life. I am
beginning to feel weary, melancholy, sometimes apprehensive."

"Of what?"

"Middle age, I suppose, and the ending of all things."

"And you want me to prescribe against melancholy?"

"Why not? What is a doctor for? I tell you I am certain these feelings
in me come from a bodily condition."

"You think it quite impossible that they may proceed from a condition of
the soul?"

"Quite. I believe it all ends here on the day one dies. I feel as
certain of that as of my being a woman. And this being my conviction, I
think it of paramount importance to have a good time while I am here."

"Naturally."

"Now, a woman's good time depends on a woman's power over others, and
that power depends on her thorough-going belief in herself. So long as
she is perfectly well, she feels young, and so long as she feels young,