She had come up a little ill⁠—well, ill, of course, for otherwise she would not have come; perhaps not quite a slight case, but rather slight than grave. The pneumothorax, that newest triumph of modern surgical technique, so rapidly become popular, had been brilliantly successful in her case. She made most gratifying progress, her condition was entirely satisfactory. Her husband⁠—for she was married, though childless⁠—might hope to have her home again in three or four months. Then, to divert herself, she made a trip to Zürich⁠—there had been no other reason for her going, save simply to amuse herself⁠—she had amused herself to her heart’s content, but found herself overtaken by the need to be “filled up” again and entrusted the business to a physician where she was. A nice, amusing young man⁠—but what was the result? Here she was overtaken by a perfect paroxysm of laughter. He had filled her too full! There were no other words to describe it, that said it all. He had meant too well by her, he had probably not too well understood the technique; the long and short of it was, in that condition, not able to breathe, suffering from cardiac depression, she had come back⁠—ah, ha, ha, ha! and Behrens, cursing and storming with a vengeance, had stuck her into bed.