He arrived about eleven o’clock.  He was one of those dignified, fashionable physicians whose decorations and titles guarantee their ability, whose tact at least equals mere skill, and who have, above all, when treating women, an adroitness that is surer than medicines.

He entered, bowed, looked at his patient, and said with a smile:  “Come, this is not a very grave case.  With eyes like yours one is never very ill.”

She felt immediate gratitude to him for this beginning, and told him of her troubles, her weakness, her nervousness and melancholy; then she mentioned, without laying too much stress on the matter, her alarmingly ill appearance.  After listening to her with an attentive air, though asking no questions except as to her appetite, as if he knew well the secret nature of this feminine ailment, he sounded her, examined her, felt of her shoulders with the tips of his fingers, lifted her arms, having undoubtedly met her thought and understood with the shrewdness of a practitioner who lifts all veils that she was consulting him more for her beauty than for her health.  Then he said: 

“Yes, we are a little anemic, and have some nervous troubles.  That is not surprising, since you have experienced such a great affliction.  I will write you a little prescription that will set you right again.  But above all, you must eat strengthening food, take beef-tea, no water, but drink beer.  I will indicate an excellent brand.  Do not tire yourself by late hours, but walk as much as you can.  Sleep a good deal and grow a little plumper.  This is all that I can advise you, my fair patient.”

She had listened to him with deep interest, trying to guess at what his words implied.  She caught at the last word.

“Yes, I am too thin,” said she.  “I was a little too stout at one time, and perhaps I weakened myself by dieting.”

“Without any doubt.  There is no harm in remaining thin when one has always been so; but when one grows thin on principle it is always at the expense of something else.  Happily, that can be soon remedied.  Good-bye, Madame.”

She felt better already, more alert; and she wished to send for the prescribed beer for her breakfast, at its headquarters, in order to obtain it quite fresh.

She was just leaving the table when Bertin was announced.

“It is I, again,” said he, “always I. I have come to ask you something.  Have you anything particular to do this afternoon?”

“No, nothing.  Why?”

“And Annette?”

“Nothing, also.”

“Then, can you come to the studio about four o’clock?”

“Yes, but for what purpose?”

“I am sketching the face of my Reverie, of which I spoke to you when I asked you whether Annette might pose for me a few moments.  It would render me a great service if I could have her for only an hour to-day.  Will you?”

The Countess hesitated, annoyed, without knowing the reason why.  But she replied: