And people in the crowd about the gates turned to stare, as he passed through, whispering, “That’s Morgan.”
Outside, the neat chauffeur stood at the door of the touring-car like a soldier in whip-cord.
“I’ll not go home now, Harry,” said Eugene, when he had got in. “Drive to the City Hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” the man returned. “Miss Lucy’s there. She said she expected you’d come there before you went home.”
“She did?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eugene stared. “I suppose Mr. Minafer must be pretty bad,” he said.
“Yes, sir. I understand he’s liable to get well, though, sir.” He moved his lever into high speed, and the car went through the heavy traffic like some fast, faithful beast that knew its way about, and knew its master’s need of haste. Eugene did not speak again until they reached the hospital.
Fanny met him in the upper corridor, and took him to an open door.
He stopped on the threshold, startled; for, from the waxen face on the pillow, almost it seemed the eyes of Isabel herself were looking at him: never before had the resemblance between mother and son been so strong—and Eugene knew that now he had once seen it thus startlingly, he need divest himself of no bitterness “to be kind” to Georgie.