Caminha shrugged his shoulders with contempt.
“If the doctor would only read—” Julião insisted.
“I read nothing,” said Caminha, raising his voice. “My books are my patients.” And he added with an ironical bow, “Nevertheless, if my intelligent colleague wishes to make the trial—”
“A glass of brandy or whiskey!” called out Julião from the door of the bedroom.
Caminha seated himself tranquilly, to enjoy the discomfiture of his “intelligent colleague.”
They raised Luiza’s head, and Julião made her swallow a little of the brandy. When they laid her back again in bed, she remained in the same condition of comatose immobility as before. Dr. Caminha took out his watch, looked at it, and waited. An anxious silence reigned. At last the doctor rose, felt the pulse of the patient, and noted the increasing coldness of the extremities; then he took his hat, without speaking, and began to draw on his gloves.
Jorge went out with him, and catching him forcibly by the arm, said,—
“Well, Doctor?”
“Everything is being done that can be done,” said the old man, shrugging his shoulders.
Jorge remained at the head of the stairs, stupefied, watching the doctor go down; his slow footsteps, as he went down step by step, resounded dolorously in Jorge’s heart. He leaned over the banister and called to him softly. The doctor paused and looked up. Jorge followed him.