“I hear you had a pretty bad night with him,” the doctor remarked.
“Yes. It’s a mystery to me how he could keep it up.”
“I was afraid you would. Well, he’s quieter now. In fact, he’s unconscious.”
“Unconscious, is he?”
“You’ll have no more trouble with the old gentleman,” said the doctor. He was looking at the window, as though at some object of great interest to be seen thence. His tone was gentle and unaffected. For the twentieth time Edwin privately admitted that in spite of the weak, vacuous smile which seemed to delight everybody except himself, there was a sympathetic quality in this bland doctor. In common moments he was common, but in the rare moment when a man with such a smile ought to be at his worst, a certain soft dignity would curiously distinguish his bearing.
“Um!” Edwin muttered, also looking at the window. And then, after a pause, he asked: “Will it last long?”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “The fact is, this is the first case of Cheyne-Stokes breathing I’ve ever had. It may last for days.”
“How’s the nurse?” Edwin demanded.
They talked about the nurse, and then Dr Heve said that, his brother the Vicar and he having met in the street, they had come in together, as the Vicar was anxious to have news of his old acquaintance’s condition. It appeared that the Vicar was talking to Maggie and Janet in the drawing-room.
“Well,” said Edwin, “I shan’t come down. Tell him I’m only presentable enough for doctors.”