I
couldn't go on with it. Yes, I am perfectly well."
It had not got into the papers. They had been kind enough to see to
that, those pitying professional colleagues who had witnessed his
dispossession. The patient had lived. If he had died the thing must have
come out. But he had lived. The situation could not have been as
desperate a one as it had seemed. The other man had handled it,--and he
was by no means a man eminent in his profession. There had been no
excuse, then, for such a seizure,--no excuse. It meant--the end.
Well, it was certainly the end of recounting it, for when he had reached
this point Leaver's power to endure the thought of it all failed him, and
he lay back upon his pillows, his brow damp and his breath short.
Burns silently ministered to him, pain in his eyes, his lips drawn tight
together. His sympathy for his friend was intense.
It seemed to him incredible that this shaken spirit before him could be
John Leaver--Leaver, whom, as he had told his wife, he had often envied
his perfect self-command, his supposed steadiness of pulse, his whole
strong, cool personality, unaffected by issues such as always keyed Burns
himself up to a tremendous tension, making him pale with the strain.
"Leaver's made of steel wires," had been his description of his friend to
Ellen. Well, the steel wires were stretched and broken, now, no doubt of
that.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113