H G Wells

The Secret Places of the Heart H G Wells

The maid was a young woman of great natural calmness; she was accustomed to let in visitorswho had this air of being annoyed and finding one umbrella too numerous for them. It matterednothing to her that the gentleman was asking for Dr. Martineau as if he was asking for somethingwith an unpleasant taste. Almost imperceptibly she relieved him of his umbrella and juggled his hatand coat on to a massive mahogany stand. "What name, Sir?" she asked, holding open the door ofthe consulting room."Hardy," said the gentleman, and then yielding it reluctantly with its distasteful three-year-oldhonour, "Sir Richmond Hardy."The door closed softly behind him and he found himself in undivided possession of the largeindifferent apartment in which the nervous and mental troubles of the outer world eddied for a timeon their way to the distinguished specialist. A bowl of daffodils, a handsome bookcase containingbound Victorian magazines and antiquated medical works, some paintings of Scotch scenery, threebig armchairs, a buhl clock, and a bronze Dancing Faun, by their want of any collective ideaenhanced rather than mitigated the promiscuous disregard of the room. He drifted to the midmostof the three windows and stared out despondently at Harley Street. For a minute or so he remained as still and limp as an empty jacket on its peg, and then a gust ofirritation stirred him."Damned fool I was to come here," he said... "DAMNED fool!"Rush out of the place?..."I've given my name."... He heard the door behind him open and for a moment pretended not to hear. Then he turnedround. "I don't see what you can do for me," he said."I'm sure I don't," said the doctor. "People come here and talk."