“I believe you didn't—nor any other man till I got in and found it. You all observed it then—and so did I. Excuse me—I'm in too much of a hurry to stop to discuss the case now. I'm due upstairs.” And once more Burns made good his escape.
“Sore,” was Field's verdict, looking after the man who had been his successful rival for so long that this exception could hardly fail to afford a decided, if rather shame-faced satisfaction to a brother surgeon not above that quite human' sentiment.
But in the course of the day Burns met Buller. He had dreaded to meet him, but not for the same reason that he had dreaded the others. Meeting Buller was quite another story.
“Old boy, I'm so sorry I could cry, if it would do you any good,” said Buller, his steady, honest gaze meeting his friend's miserable eyes. For the defiance had melted out of Burns's aspect and left it frankly wretched before the hearty friendship in this man's whole attitude; friendship which could be counted upon, like that of his office nurse's, to the end of all things.
Burns swallowed hard, making no reply, because he could not. But his hand returned the steady pressure of Buller's in a way that showed he was grateful.
“I knew you'd take it hard—much harder than common. And, of course, I understand why. Any man would. But I wish I could make you feel the way I do about it. There's not one particle of reason for you to blame yourself. I've thought the case over and over from start to finish, and I'm more and more convinced that she wouldn't have lived without the operation. You gave her her only chance. Take that in? I mean it. I went around there this morning and told the family so—I took that liberty. It was a comfort to them, though they believed anyway. They haven't lost a particle of faith in you.”
Burns bit his lip till he had it under control, and could get out a word or two of gratitude.
“And now I want a favour of you,” the other went on hurriedly. “A case I want you to see with me—possible operation within a day or two.”
Burns hesitated an instant, changing colour. Then: “Are you sure you'd better have me?” he asked, a trifle huskily.
The other looked him in the eye. “Why not? I know of nobody so competent. Come, man—put that Satan of unreasonable self-reproach behind you. When man becomes omniscient and omnipotent there'll be no errors in his judgment or his performance—and not before. Meanwhile we're all in the soup of fallibility together. I—I'm not much at expressing myself elegantly: but I trust I'm sufficiently forcible,” smiled Buller. “Er—will you meet me at four at my office? We'll go to the Arnolds' together, and I'll give you the history of the case on the way. It's a corker, I assure you, and it's keeping me awake nights.”