“Upper or lower?” he asked, with a laugh, and then he gazed fixedly at me.

I had not realized that I had upper teeth until he spoke, and a shudder went through me as a semicircle of pain shot through my upper jaw.

“Upper,” I retorted, with some surliness.

“Verging a trifle on your cheekbones, and thence to the optic nerve,” he said, calmly, still gazing into my soul.  “I’ll try your sight.  Look at that card over there, and tell me—­”

“What nonsense is this, doctor?” I cried, angry at his airy manner and manifest control over my symptoms.  “There is nothing the matter with my eyes.  They’re as good as any one of the million eyes of your friend the Argus.”

“Then what, in the name of Jupiter, is the matter with you?” he ejaculated, elevating his eyebrows.

“Nothing at all,” said I, sulkily.

AEsculapius threw himself on the sofa and roared with laughter.

“Perfectly splendid!” he said, when he had recovered from his mirth.  “Perfectly splendid!  You are the best example of the value of my system I’ve had in a long time.  Now let me show you something,” he added.  “Put these glasses on.”

He took the glasses from his nose and put them astride of mine, and lead me before a mirror—­a cheval-glass arrangement that stood in one corner of the room.

“Now look yourself straight in the eye,” said he.

I did so, and truly it was as if I looked upon the page of a book printed in the largest and clearest type.  I hesitate to say what I saw written there, since the glass was strong enough to reach not only the mind itself, but further into the very depths of my subself-consciousness.  On the surface, man thinks well of himself; this continues in modified intensity to his self-consciousness, but the fool does not live who, in his subself-consciousness, the Holy of Holies of Realization, does not know that he is a fool.

“Take ’em off,” I cried, for they seemed to burn into the very depths of my soul.

“That isn’t necessary,” said AEsculapius, kindly.  “Just turn your eyes away from the glass a moment and they won’t bother you.  I want to cure this trouble of yours.”

I stopped looking at myself in the mirror and the tense condition of my nerves was immediately relieved.

“Feel better right away, eh?” he asked.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“So I thought,” he said.  “You’ve momentarily given up self-contemplation.  Now lower your gaze.  Look at your chest a moment.”

Just what were the properties of the glass I do not know, nor do I know how one’s chest should look, but, as I looked down, I found that just as I could penetrate to the depths of my mind through my eyes, so was it possible for me to inspect myself physically.

“Nothing the matter there, eh?” said AEsculapius.

“Not that I can see,” said I.

“Nor I,” said he.  “Now, if you think there is anything the matter with you anywhere else,” he added, “you are welcome to use the glasses as long as you see fit.”