It was summer and there were no engagements to break. The doctor was
caught in the whirlwind of another small-pox epidemic and lived in
rooms he reserved for the purpose. He did not insist upon her
departure from town as he knew her to be immune, and he thought it
best she should remain where she could pursue her regimen
uninterrupted; and tax her strength as little as possible. If he did
not dismiss her from his mind at least he had not a misgiving. She
had never disobeyed him, she appeared to have forgotten Masters at
last, she took her tonics automatically, and there were good plays in
town. In a few months she would be restored to health and himself.
He returned to the hotel at the end of six weeks. It was the dinner
hour but his wife was not at the piano. He tapped on the door that
led from the parlor to her bedroom, and although there was no
response he turned the knob and entered.
Madeleine was lying on the bed, asleep apparently.
He went forward anxiously; he had never known her to sleep at this
hour before. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, but she did not
awaken. Then he bent over her, and drew back with a frown. But
although horrified he was far from suspecting the whole truth. He had
been compelled to break more than one patient of too ardent a
fidelity to his prescriptions.
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