“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Sir, you know best.”
His voice shook, and he stopped. There was silence between them till they heard the footsteps of the doctor and Joan coming down the stairs. Mr. Cornthwaite opened the door.
“Well, Doctor,” said he, “what of the patients?”
There was more impatience than solicitude in his tone.
“They’re both very ill,” answered the doctor. “They ought each to have a nurse, really.”
“Very well. Can you engage them, Doctor? I’ll undertake to pay all the expenses of their illness.”
The doctor was impressed by this generosity; so was Bram, but in a different way. What was the reason of this sudden consideration, this unexpected liberality to the poor relations whom he detested, and to whom he imputed the death of his son?
“What’s the matter with them?” went on Mr. Cornthwaite in the same hard, perfunctory, if not slightly suspicious tone.
“Pneumonia in Mr. Biron’s case, brought on by exposure to wet and cold, no doubt. He has just had a severe shivering fit, and his pulse is up to a hundred and four. We must do the best we can, but he’s a bad subject for pneumonia, very.”