Upon this day
one of these hated moments of mental and physical exhaustion had come
upon him, and he struggled hard against his enemy. The procession of
patients had been long, and more than once in the tiny interval between
the exit of one and the entry of another, Dr. Levillier had peeped at his
watch. His last appointment was at a quarter to five, then he would be
free, and he said to himself that he would take a cab and drive down to
Victoria Street. Valentine was often at home about six. The doctor put
aside the little devil of pride that whispered, "You have been badly
treated," and resolved to make the advance to this friend, who seemed
to have forgotten him. In times of fatigue and depression he had often
sought Valentine in order to be solaced by his music. But this solace was
at an end, unless, indeed, the strange burden of musical impotence had
been lifted from Valentine, and his talent had been restored to him.
The last patient came to the doctor's door punctually and was punctually
dismissed as the clock chimed the quarter of an hour after five. The last
prescription was written. The doctor drew in a deep breath of relief. He
touched the bell and his servant appeared.
"There is no one waiting?" he asked.
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