VI
Dr Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very
tired…Success had its penalties. There had been a time when he had sat in
his consulting room in Harley Street, correctly apparelled, surrounded
with the most up to date appliances and the most
luxurious1 furnishings
and waited—waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or
fail…
Well, it had succeeded! He’d been lucky! Lucky and
skilful2 of course. He
was a good man at his job—but that wasn’t enough for success. You had to
have luck as well. And he’d had it! An accurate
diagnosis3, a couple of
grateful women patients—women with money and position—and word
had got about. ‘You ought to try Armstrong—quite a young man—but so
clever—Pam had been to all sorts of people for years and he put his finger
on the trouble at once!’ The ball had started rolling.
And now Dr Armstrong had definitely arrived. His days were full. He
had little leisure. And so, on this August morning, he was glad that he was
leaving London and going to be for some days on an island off the Devon
coast. Not that it was exactly a holiday. The letter he had received had
been rather vague in its terms, but there was nothing vague about the ac-
companying cheque. A
whacking4 fee. These Owens must be rolling in
money. Some little difficulty, it seemed, a husband who was worried about
his wife’s health and wanted a report on it without her being alarmed. She
wouldn’t hear of seeing a doctor. Her nerves—
Nerves! The doctor’s
eyebrows5 went up. These women and their nerves!
Well, it was good for business after all. Half the women who consulted
him had nothing the matter with them but
boredom6, but they wouldn’t
thank you for telling them so! And one could usually find something.
‘A slightly
uncommon7 condition of the (some long word) nothing at all
serious—but it needs just putting right. A simple treatment.’
Well, medicine was mostly faith-healing when it came to it. And he had
a good manner—he could inspire hope and belief.
Lucky that he’d managed to pull himself together in time after that busi-
ness ten—no, fifteen years ago. It had been a near thing, that! He’d been
going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. He’d cut out drink al-
together. By Jove, it had been a near thing, though…
With a
devastating8 ear-splitting blast on the horn an enormous Super-
Sports Dalmain car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr Armstrong
nearly went into the hedge. One of these young fools who tore round the
country. He hated them. That had been a near shave, too. Damned young
fool!
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