“Hello, Stefan dear,” said a small, rather high voice, which made him jump violently. Then he saw a face on the pillow, its eyes closed, and its nose and mouth covered with a wire cone. In a moment there came a gasp, the sheathed form drew tense, the nurse spilled a few drops from her can upon the cone, the growling recommenced and heightened to a crescendo. Stefan had an impression of tremendous physical life, but the human tone of the “Hello, Stefan,” was quite gone again.
He was backing shakily out when the doctor called to him.
“It will be born quite soon, now, Mr. Byrd,” her cheery voice promised.
Trembling with relief, he stumbled downstairs. Farraday was standing rigid before the fireplace, his face quite expressionless.
“She's having ether—I don't think she's suffering. The doctor says quite soon, now,” Stefan jerked out.
“I'm thankful,” said Farraday, quietly.
He stooped and picked up his fallen pipe, but it took him a long time to refill it—particles of tobacco kept showering to the rug from his fingers. Stefan, with a new cigarette, resumed his prowl.
Midsummer dawn was breaking. The lamplight began to pale before the glimmer of the windows. A sleepy bird chirped, the room became mysterious.
There had been rapid steps overhead for some moments, and now the two men became aware that the tiger-like sounds had quite ceased. The steps overhead quieted. Farraday put out the lamp, and the blue light flooded the room.
A bird called loudly, and another answered it, high, repeatedly. The notes were right over their heads; they rose higher, insistent. They were not the notes of a bird. The nurse appeared at the door and looked at Stefan.