. . . What makes you
afraid of me, Farrell?'
"He drank some wine and stared down on the table-cloth, knitting
his brows. 'Well,' he answered, 'I might tell you it's because
you're mad.'
"'That's nonsense,' I assured him.
"'Oh, is it?' said he. 'I'd like to be sure it is.'
"'My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time," I quoted.
'Feel it, Farrell.'
"I stretched out my wrist. He started back as though it had been
a snake.
"'On the whole you're right,' said I, drawing back my hand
slowly, watching his eyes. 'If they saw you feeling my pulse
the ladies around us would at once solve the doubt they have
discussed in the drawing-room. All _table-d'hote_ ladies
speculate concerning their fellow-guests in the hotel. . . . .
Thirty pairs of eyes were on the point of detecting you for a
fashionable physician, and by this time to-morrow thirty ladies
travelling in search of health would have found means to make
your acquaintance and pump you for medical advice on the
cheap.
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