Dr. Guy Fowley crossed the office to sit on the edge of his desk, half facing the patient. She was leaning back in her chair, her eyes down cast, poised and impeccably cool in her Lavian frock. The trembling, helpless woman of the treatment room had vanished with her nakedness. She was again Mrs. A. J. Hollis, wife of the noted financier, symbol of everything he had desired in his poverty-haunted boyhood.