She went to the window and looked out at the roofs of neighboring houses, a disordered conglomeration of water-tanks and skylights and chimney-pots. Then nearer, almost under her feet, she looked into a courtyard of the hospital and saw a pale, emaciated man in a wheel-chair. She drew back as if it were something indecent. Would Vincent ever become like that? she thought. If so, she would rather he died now under the anesthetic.
A little while later the nurse came in, and said almost sternly that Dr. Crew had sent her to tell Mrs. Farron that the conditions seemed extremely favorable, and that all immediate danger was over.
“You mean,” said Adelaide, fiercely, “that Mr. Farron will live?”
“I certainly inferred that to be the doctor’s meaning,” answered the nurse. “But here is the assistant, Dr. Withers.”
Dr. Withers, bringing with him an intolerable smell of disinfectants and chloroform, hurried in, with his hair mussed from the haste with which he had removed his operating-garments. He had small, bright, brown eyes, with little lines about them that seemed to suggest humor, but actually indicated that he buoyed up his life not by exaltation of himself, but by half-laughing depreciation of every one else.
“I thought you’d be glad to know, Mrs. Farron,” he said, “that any danger that may have existed is now over. Your husband—”
“That may have existed,” cried Adelaide. “Do you mean to say there hasn’t been any real danger?”
The young doctor’s eyes twinkled.
“An operation even in the best hands is always a danger,” he replied.
“But you mean there was no other?” Adelaide asked, aware of a growing coldness about her hands and feet.