were striking seven, stepped into a taximeter cab, and was hurried off
into the busy whirl of St. James's Street, while Doctor Meyer Isaacson
went upstairs to his bedroom to rest and dress for dinner. His clothes
were already laid out, and he sent his valet away. As soon as the man
was gone, the Doctor took off his coat and waistcoat, his collar and
tie, sat down in an arm-chair by the open window, leaned his head
against a cushion, shut his eyes, and deliberately relaxed all his
muscles. Every day, sometimes at one time, sometimes at another, he did
this for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour; and in these moments, as
he relaxed his muscles, he also relaxed his mind, banishing thoughts by
an effort of the will. So often had he done this that generally he did
it without difficulty; and though he never fell asleep in daylight, he
came out of this short rest-cure refreshed as after two hours of
slumber.

But to-day, though he could command his body, his mind was wilful. He
could not clear it of the restless thoughts. Indeed, it seemed to him
that he became all mind as he sat there, motionless, looking almost like
a dead man, with his stretched-out legs, his hanging arms, his dropped
jaw. His last patient was fighting against his desire for complete
repose, was defying his will and conquering it.

After his examination of Mrs. Chepstow, his series of questions, he had
said to her, "There is nothing the matter with you." A very ordinary
phrase, but even as he spoke it, something within him cried to him, "You
liar!" This woman suffered from no bodily disease. But to say to her,
"There is nothing the matter with you," was, nevertheless, to tell her a
lie. And he had added the qualifying statement, "that a doctor can do
anything for." He could see her face before him now as it had looked for
a moment after he had spoken.