The banker glanced toward George’s door, full of the question he dared not put.
Campton answered it. “You want to know how he is? Well, how should he be, with that bullet in him, and the fever eating him inch by inch, and two more wounded men in his room? That’s how he is!” Campton almost shouted.
Mr. Brant was trembling all over.
“Two more men—in his room?” he echoed shrilly.
“Yes—bad cases; dying.” Campton drew a deep breath. “You see there are times when your money and your influence and your knowing everybody are no more use than so much sawdust——”
The nurse opened the door and looked out. “You’re talking too loudly,” she said.
She shut the door, and the two men stood silent, abashed; finally Mr. Brant turned away. “I’ll go and try again. There must be other surgeons ... other ways ...” he whispered.
“Oh, your surgeons ... oh, your ways!” Campton sneered after him, in the same whisper.
XXVI
From the room where he sat at the foot of George’s glossy white bed, Campton, through the open door, could watch the November sun slanting down a white ward where, in the lane between other white beds, pots of chrysanthemums stood on white-covered tables.