“Well, there’s certainly a fracture somewhere in my life,” said Dick Hand, grimly. “And I suffer. And I don’t know where it is or how to set it.”
After a little pause he entered upon his story. It was when he had entirely finished and sat silent that the specialist spoke again.
“You say you were once in love?”
“It was the only time I ever was in love,” replied Richard Hand. “She was two years younger than I. We more or less grew up together. We were both in our twenties when she refused me for good and all. She was already in love with another man and she was married to him a little later.”
“You use the past tense. Is she dead?”
“No, she isn’t. She is alive and has four children. Her husband has disappeared lately, left her and the children. By the way, he would make a case for you! If you could cure him I’d say you could cure anybody.”
“It isn’t we who cure,” explained the other man patiently. “We no more cure a man than does the surgeon who sets a broken bone. We just try, like him, to get things straightened out so they can cure themselves. Tell me about her husband, who has disappeared.”
Dick recounted Guy Vanton’s story. It was a long recital but the specialist seemed interested. At the end Dick asked: “What do you make of it?”
“It is a bad case,” thoughtfully, “but it isn’t hopeless. It might even come out all right. I’m afraid not, though. If she—if his wife could not straighten things out for him there isn’t much likelihood that anybody else can. She must be a very fine woman. And they genuinely loved each other. No doubt of that. Love—and children. They are the ultimate satisfaction of most men and women, but not of all. I imagine that he is an exception to the general rule. There was something else that he hadn’t got. Perhaps he will find it.”
“A fine woman.... Love—and children ... the ultimate satisfaction.” The words struck something in Richard Hand. He looked up suddenly and spoke in a harsh voice: