him, and it was not easy to dismiss its significance from his mind. He was amazed at his own daring and passionate response, inspired by anger as he tried to stress his point of view.
Irene looked forlorn, her attitude tempered with sweet reasonableness as she said in a little 'please forgive me' voice, 'I didn't mean to—to make a scene, but you know I can't go out. Even to talk about it makes me feel ill.'
Adam didn't prevaricate. 'And you know, I'm here to change all that. Otherwise I'm no good to you as your doctor.'
At that she burst out, 'But your visits mean everything and sometimes you seem to understand.' She looked at him pleadingly.
'You want your own way, Irene.' His voice was quiet and even solemn.
She cried immediately, 'It isn't my own way, but the way the—the accident affected me. Why can't you realise that? Emma does,' she added almost desperately.
'Emma is not your doctor,' he reminded her.
Irene wanted to challenge him. Her mood changed.
'You and Emma disagree about me,' she said with emphatic certainty.
Adam had no intention of discussing Emma and even the sound of her name disturbed him.
'That is not what I'm here to talk about, Irene. My one ambition is to see you walk out of this house and take your place again in the world. The first step could so easily be to my sister's house, with Emma and me. . .' His voice was persuasive; he held her gaze with an almost mesmeric power.
She shrank back in her chair and cried out, 'No!' And again, 'No. You don't realise what agoraphobia is like. The terror. . .I'm ill, don't you see? Just talking about it.' She rushed on, 'It's like being on a precipice, looking down and petrified you'll fall. . . That front door opening and my going out!' She put her hands up to her face as though confronting some nameless horror and a sob escaped her. 'This isn't the way to make me well,' she cried in a thin, despairing voice.
Adam was firm as he said, 'But you don't want to see' any new faces, Irene. You want your life to be enclosed within these four walls, with just the few familiar people visiting you from time to time. I am your doctor, so I'm privileged '
She cried out, 'You're my doctor—here to help me!'
He said with a touch of irony, 'How can I do that if you tie my hands behind my back and shut your mind against everything I suggest?' He paused and then said significantly, 'Now I'm going to ask you to do something for me.' Even as he spoke he felt as though Emma were standing beside him and he was hoping for her support.
Irene's heart seemed to miss a beat. She was immediately apprehensive.
'What,' she asked falteringly, 'can I possibly do for you?' She met his intent gaze and gave a little cry, 'Please don't bring up my going out again— please.'
'It has nothing to do with going out,' he assured her. 'I just want you to meet my sister. Invite her here.'
Irene shrank and then gasped, 'Why?'
'To widen your horizon; to meet someone new who is bright and cheerful, and a sympathetic person who knows the circumstances. It would be a step in the right direction and make me feel that you were making progress.'
Irene hastened, 'There's Emma?'
He answered instinctively and then reminded himself of how Emma had avoided lunching with him and Ruth only that day, as he said, 'Emma will have no objection.' His voice hardened slightly as he thought of her antipathy and the scene they had recently enacted. He held Irene's gaze. 'I'd like to think that we are sufficiently good friends for my sister to be welcome,' he added significantly.
Instantly Irene responded.
'Oh, but of course she would be welcome. It isn't that I don't like people, but the thought of strangers makes me lose confidence and I shake, and ' She broke off.
'Nevertheless, may I bring her here one evening, say next Sunday? I'm not on duty then.' He was persistent.
Irene hesitated and then said, 'That would be lovely. . .I know about her, but I forget.'
'She's amicably divorced, thirty-six,
Irene looked forlorn, her attitude tempered with sweet reasonableness as she said in a little 'please forgive me' voice, 'I didn't mean to—to make a scene, but you know I can't go out. Even to talk about it makes me feel ill.'
Adam didn't prevaricate. 'And you know, I'm here to change all that. Otherwise I'm no good to you as your doctor.'
At that she burst out, 'But your visits mean everything and sometimes you seem to understand.' She looked at him pleadingly.
'You want your own way, Irene.' His voice was quiet and even solemn.
She cried immediately, 'It isn't my own way, but the way the—the accident affected me. Why can't you realise that? Emma does,' she added almost desperately.
'Emma is not your doctor,' he reminded her.
Irene wanted to challenge him. Her mood changed.
'You and Emma disagree about me,' she said with emphatic certainty.
Adam had no intention of discussing Emma and even the sound of her name disturbed him.
'That is not what I'm here to talk about, Irene. My one ambition is to see you walk out of this house and take your place again in the world. The first step could so easily be to my sister's house, with Emma and me. . .' His voice was persuasive; he held her gaze with an almost mesmeric power.
She shrank back in her chair and cried out, 'No!' And again, 'No. You don't realise what agoraphobia is like. The terror. . .I'm ill, don't you see? Just talking about it.' She rushed on, 'It's like being on a precipice, looking down and petrified you'll fall. . . That front door opening and my going out!' She put her hands up to her face as though confronting some nameless horror and a sob escaped her. 'This isn't the way to make me well,' she cried in a thin, despairing voice.
Adam was firm as he said, 'But you don't want to see' any new faces, Irene. You want your life to be enclosed within these four walls, with just the few familiar people visiting you from time to time. I am your doctor, so I'm privileged '
She cried out, 'You're my doctor—here to help me!'
He said with a touch of irony, 'How can I do that if you tie my hands behind my back and shut your mind against everything I suggest?' He paused and then said significantly, 'Now I'm going to ask you to do something for me.' Even as he spoke he felt as though Emma were standing beside him and he was hoping for her support.
Irene's heart seemed to miss a beat. She was immediately apprehensive.
'What,' she asked falteringly, 'can I possibly do for you?' She met his intent gaze and gave a little cry, 'Please don't bring up my going out again— please.'
'It has nothing to do with going out,' he assured her. 'I just want you to meet my sister. Invite her here.'
Irene shrank and then gasped, 'Why?'
'To widen your horizon; to meet someone new who is bright and cheerful, and a sympathetic person who knows the circumstances. It would be a step in the right direction and make me feel that you were making progress.'
Irene hastened, 'There's Emma?'
He answered instinctively and then reminded himself of how Emma had avoided lunching with him and Ruth only that day, as he said, 'Emma will have no objection.' His voice hardened slightly as he thought of her antipathy and the scene they had recently enacted. He held Irene's gaze. 'I'd like to think that we are sufficiently good friends for my sister to be welcome,' he added significantly.
Instantly Irene responded.
'Oh, but of course she would be welcome. It isn't that I don't like people, but the thought of strangers makes me lose confidence and I shake, and ' She broke off.
'Nevertheless, may I bring her here one evening, say next Sunday? I'm not on duty then.' He was persistent.
Irene hesitated and then said, 'That would be lovely. . .I know about her, but I forget.'
'She's amicably divorced, thirty-six,
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