Bergman stood before Mrs. Burgess, gazing at her gravely and intently.
The more at ease of the two, she sat down on a sofa and, with a gesture
of the hand, invited him to take the arm-chair in front of it.
"Frau von Jagerfeld has talked of you a great deal, and very
enthusiastically," she said, in a musical, somewhat deep, resonant
voice, which thrilled his every nerve like the sound of bells, and as
he bowed, she added, smiling mischievously: "And of me to you; I
watched you at the table."
"Yes," he answered, "and enthusiastically, also."
"She is a kind friend, I know." A brief pause followed, which she
abruptly interrupted. "You are a physician, and in spite of your
youth, a famous one--modesty is unnecessary. It is strange--I like
physicians, and yet I fear them."
"Why?"
"Yes, why? I like them because they are usually earnest, talented men,
who have experienced much, know much, and from whom new and remarkable
things can always be learned. I fear them because they have no
illusions."
"Perhaps that is not always correct."
"Oh, pardon me; how is a physician to preserve any illusions, when he
knows human beings thoroughly, sees that an emotion depends upon the
nerve of a tooth, a mood upon the degree of moisture contained in the
air, and a character upon the healthy or diseased stomach.
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