"Were you in front?" said Miss Bolton, and made a face. "Oh, Lord! Sorry. I was rotten."
Reggie understood that his professional interest was required.
"What's the trouble?" he said cheerfully.
"That's your show," said Miss Bolton. "Put me through it."
The conversation then became confidential and dull upon the usual themes of a medical examination. At last, "Well, you know, we don't get to anything," Reggie said. "This is all quite good and normal. What's making you anxious?"
"Dreams," said Miss Bolton. "Why do I have dreams? I never dreamed in my life till now."
"What sort of dreams?"
"Oh, any old sort. Bally rot. One night it was a motor-bus chivvying me on the stage. One night May"—May Weston was her companion—"May would keep parrots in the bathroom. Then I hear a noise and wake up and there isn't any noise."
"Do you have this every night?"
"Snakes! Not much. Now and again. But I say, doc, it's not fair. I don't drink and I don't drug. But I'll be seeing pink rats if this goes on."
"Is there anything worrying you just now?"
Was it possible that Miss Bolton blushed? Reggie could not be sure. "You're a bright boy, doc. Be good!" She shook hands and gripped like a man. The big emerald she always wore ground into
