magnificent. Mr. Prohack felt ashamed of himself, and the more ashamed
because he considered that he was in quite tolerable health.

"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."