Mrs. Hart led the way into the adjoining room. There our friends maintained a melancholy silence. Mrs. Hart’s cats slept comfortably, one upon the sofa, the other upon the rug before the mantelpiece. The voices of the two physicians, in earnest conversation, were audible through the closed door.
Presently Mr. Hart jumped up.
“What—what now?” Mr. Flint questioned.
“I heard one of them step into the hall. Perhaps they need something.”
She hurried to the threshold. There she confronted the hospital-doctor. He had his hand raised, as if on the point of rapping for admittance.
“Ah, I was looking for you,” he explained. “I am going now. I don’t see that I can be of any further use.”
“How is Arthur?”
“About as he was. Dr. Letzup has taken charge of him. Well, good day.”
“Oh, you shan’t leave us in this way,” protested Mrs. Hart. “You must at least wait and let me offer you a glass of wine.”
“I’m much obliged,” said the doctor; “but they are expecting me in Chambers Street.”