“Stuff!” ejaculated Doctor Routh. “He’s only got the modern mania for psychology. What harm can that do?”
“Is that all? Alexander’s an ass.”
Robert Lauderdale turned his head away as though he had settled the question which had tormented him. Again there was a silence in the room. The doctor looked at his patient with a rather inscrutable expression, then took out his watch, replaced it, and consulted his pocket-book. At last he rose and walked toward the window noiselessly on the thick, white carpet.
“I shall have to be going,” he said. “I’ve got a consultation. Cheever’s downstairs.”
Doctor Cheever was Doctor Routh’s assistant, who did not leave the house during Mr. Lauderdale’s illness.
“And you can send away the undertaker, if he’s waiting,” growled the sick man, with an attempt at a laugh. “I say—can I see people, if they call? I suppose my nephews and nieces will be here before long.”
“It’s no use to tell you what to do. You’ll do just what you please, anyway. Professionally, I tell you to keep quiet, not to talk, and to sleep if you can. You’re not like other people,” added Routh, thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
“Most men in your position are badly scared when it comes to going out. The efforts they make to save themselves sometimes kill them. You seem rather indifferent about it. Yet you have a good deal to leave behind you.”
“H’m—I’ve had it all—and a long time. But I want to see Katharine Lauderdale, if she comes.”