The hours wore on. Burns could not sleep, could not even relax and rest. To the first agony of disappointment succeeded a depression so profound that it seemed to him he could never rise above it and take up his work again. A hundred times he went painfully over the details of the case, from first to last. Why had he done as he had? Why had he not listened to Grayson, to Van Horn, to Fields? Only Buller had backed him up in his decisions—and he knew well enough that Buller had done it only because of his faith in Burns himself and his remembrance of some of his extraordinary successes, not because his own judgment approved.
Five o'clock—six o'clock—he had thrown himself into the chair again, and had, at last, dropped into an uneasy sort of half slumber, when the office door quietly opened and Miss Mathewson came in. It was two hours before she was due. Burns roused and regarded her wonderingly, with eyes heavy and blood-shot. She stood still and looked down at him, sympathy in her face. She herself was pale with fatigue and loss of sleep, for she had been with him throughout the week of struggle over the case he had lost, and she knew the situation as no one else, even his professional colleagues, knew it. But she smiled wanly down at him, like a pitying angel.
“You didn't go to bed, Doctor,” she said, very gently. “I was afraid you wouldn't. Won't you go now? You know there's a day's work before you.”
He shook his head. “No—I'd rather get out in the air. I'm going now. I'd like to take the Imp and—drive to—”
“No, no!”—She spoke quickly, coming closer, as if she understood and would not let him use the reckless, common phrase which sometimes means despair. “I thought you might be feeling like that—that's why I came early. Not that I can say anything to cheer you, Doctor Burns—I know you care too much for that. But there's one thing you must realize—you must say it over and over to yourself—you did your best. No human being can do more.”
“A fool's best,” he muttered. “Cold comfort that.”
“Not a fool's best—a skilful surgeon's best.”
He shook his head again, got slowly up from his chair, and stood staring down into the ashes of the long-dead fire. The usually straight shoulders were bent; the naturally well-poised head, always carried confidently erect, was sunk upon the broad chest.
Amy Mathewson watched him for a minute, her own face full of pain; then laid her hand, rather timidly, upon his arm. He looked round at her and tried to smile, but the effort only made his expression the more pitiful.
“Bless your heart,” said he, brokenly, “I believe you'd stand by me to the last ditch of a failure.”