“You are unreasonable, Laura.  One chooses a doctor on account of his reputation in his profession, and that of Dr. Macnuthrie stands high.”

“I do not want any doctor.”

“But if you are ill, my dear—­”

“I am not ill.”

“But you said you had a headache.  You have said so for the last ten days.”

“Having a headache is not being ill.  I only wish you would not talk of it, and then perhaps I should get rid of it.”

“I cannot believe that.  Headache in nine cases out of ten comes from the stomach.”  Though he said this,—­saying it because it was the common-place common-sense sort of thing to say, still at the very moment there was the shadow of the truth before his eyes.  What if this headache meant simple dislike to him, and to his modes of life?

“It is nothing of that sort,” said Lady Laura, impatient at having her ailment inquired into with so much accuracy.

“Then what is it?  You cannot think that I can be happy to hear you complaining of headache every day,—­making it an excuse for absolute idleness.”

“What is it that you want me to do?” she said, jumping up from her seat.  “Set me a task, and if I don’t go mad over it, I’ll get through it.  There are the account books.  Give them to me.  I don’t suppose I can see the figures, but I’ll try to see them.”

“Laura, this is unkind of you,—­and ungrateful.”

“Of course;—­it is everything that is bad.  What a pity that you did not find it out last year!  Oh dear, oh dear! what am I to do?” Then she threw herself down upon the sofa, and put both her hands up to her temples.

“I will send for Dr. Macnuthrie at once,” said Mr. Kennedy, walking towards the door very slowly, and speaking as slowly as he walked.

“No;—­do no such thing,” she said, springing to her feet again and intercepting him before he reached the door.  “If he comes I will not see him.  I give you my word that I will not speak to him if he comes.  You do not understand,” she said; “you do not understand at all.”

“What is it that I ought to understand?” he asked.

“That a woman does not like to be bothered.”

He made no reply at once, but stood there twisting the handle of the door, and collecting his thoughts.  “Yes,” said he at last; “I am beginning to find that out;—­and to find out also what it is that bothers a woman, as you call it.  I can see now what it is that makes your head ache.  It is not the stomach.  You are quite right there.  It is the prospect of a quiet decent life, to which would be attached the performance of certain homely duties.  Dr. Macnuthrie is a learned man, but I doubt whether he can do anything for such a malady.”

“You are quite right, Robert; he can do nothing.”

“It is a malady you must cure for yourself, Laura;—­and which is to be cured by perseverance.  If you can bring yourself to try—­”

“But I cannot bring myself to try at all,” she said.