“Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?” He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration.

“Oh! I’m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber⁠—of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult⁠—no, not precisely to consult⁠—to talk to you about Edna. I don’t know what ails her.”

“Madame Pontellier not well,” marveled the Doctor. “Why, I saw her⁠—I think it was a week ago⁠—walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me.”

“Yes, yes; she seems quite well,” said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; “but she doesn’t act well. She’s odd, she’s not like herself. I can’t make her out, and I thought perhaps you’d help me.”

“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor.