The other shook his head.
“I'm afraid not. Warren has been very decent, though. He told me himself that he suggested consultation with me at the first, but—Miss Harrington said no so decisively that he didn't dare venture it again, even though he knew of my desire to see the child. Lately, some of his best patients have come over to me—so of course that ties my hands still more effectually. But, Pendleton, I've got to see that child! Think of what it may mean to her—if I do!”
“Yes, and think of what it will mean—if you don't!” retorted Pendleton.
“But how can I—without a direct request from her aunt?—which I'll never get!”
“She must be made to ask you!”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“No, I guess you don't—nor anybody else. She's too proud and too angry to ask me—after what she said years ago it would mean if she did ask me. But when I think of that child, doomed to lifelong misery, and when I think that maybe in my hands lies a chance of escape, but for that confounded nonsense we call pride and professional etiquette, I—” He did not finish his sentence, but with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he turned and began to tramp up and down the room again, angrily.
“But if she could be made to see—to understand,” urged John Pendleton.
“Yes; and who's going to do it?” demanded the doctor, with a savage turn.