George shook his hand warmly, and the doctor left the house. Half way down Lockyer Street he met Ella Millard, who was burning with impatience to know the result of the interview. As he came up she hastily dismissed a fair-haired young fellow of three or four and twenty, who trotted meekly off at once towards the Hoe. She was too deeply interested in what the doctor had to tell to utter more than the word “Well!” in a tremulous voice. She thought, however, by the expression of his face that his news could not be very bad.
“Well!” he repeated after her.
“Is it well?” said she impatiently.
The doctor smiled. “I think so.”
Her face softened. “I thought it could not be the worst; it would have been too dreadful—and too foolish,” she added sharply.
“That is just what I told him. Oh! I was very hard with him; I thought he wanted it. He has had an awful time of it lately, and the poor boy hardly knows even yet whether he is on his head or his heels. But it is quite time now that he made an effort to pull himself together. I gave him a good talking to, I can tell you.”
Her look seemed to implore mercy, but she said nothing. He continued: “They ought to go away. He thinks he could write, and I should encourage him to try.”
“And—his wife?” she asked, with a scarcely perceptible diminution of interest.
“There is nothing organically wrong with her at all. She will be herself again before him, and then help his recovery.”
“Help him! Do you think so?” asked Ella doubtfully.