“Mother,” murmured Sissie, with a sweetness of which Mr. Prohack had imagined her to be utterly incapable.  “Come and sit down.”

And Eve, guided by her daughter, the callous, home-deserting dancing-mistress, came and sat down.

* * * * *

II

“My dear sir,” said Dr. Veiga.  “There is nothing at all to cause alarm.  She will gradually recover.  Believe me.”

He and Mr. Prohack and Sissie were conspiring together in the dining-room, the drawing-room being at that hour and on that day under the dominion of servants with brushes.

“But what’s the matter with her?  What is it?”

“Merely neurasthenia—­traumatic neurasthenia.”

“But what’s that?” Mr. Prohack spoke low, just as though his wife could overhear from the boudoir above and was listening to them under the impression that they were plotting against her life.

“It’s a morbid condition due to a violent shock.”

“But how?  You told me the other day that it was purely physical.”

“Well,” said Dr. Veiga.  “It is, because it must be.  But I assure you that if a post-mortem were to be held on Mrs. Prohack—­”

“Oh, doctor, please!” Sissie stopped him resentfully.

The doctor paused and then continued:  “There would be no trace of any morbid condition in any of the organs.”

“Then how do you explain it?”

“We don’t explain it,” cried Dr. Veiga, suddenly throwing the onus on the whole medical profession.  “We can’t.  We don’t know.”

“It’s very, very unsatisfactory, all this ignorance.”

“It certainly is.  But did you suppose that medical science, alone among all sciences, had achieved finality and omniscience?  We’ve reached the state of knowing that we don’t know, and that’s something.  I hope I’m not flattering you by talking like this.  I only do it to people whom I suspect to be intelligent.  But of course if you’d prefer the omniscient bedside manner you can have it without extra charge.”

Mr. Prohack thought, frightened:  “I shall be making a friend of this quack soon, if I’m not careful.”

“And by the way, about your health,” Dr. Veiga proceeded, after having given further assurances as to his other patient.  “Mrs. Prohack was perfectly correct.  You’re not making progress.  The fact is, you’re bored.  You haven’t organised your existence, and the lack of organisation is reacting on your health.”

“Something is reacting on his health,” Sissie put in.  “I’m not at all pleased.”  She was now not Mr. Prohack’s daughter but his aunt.

“How can I organise my existence?” Mr. Prohack burst out crossly.  “I haven’t got any existence to organise.  I haven’t got anything to do.  I thought I had too much to do, the other day.  Illusion.  Of course I’m bored.  I feel all right, but bored I am.  And it’s your fault.”