At last, with the stolidity that is born of despair, “Finished!” I repeated. “You have then trephined?”
“We have.”
“And the patient——?”
“She is not yet recovered from the anaesthetic.”
We entered the room. Miriam, pale and beautiful, lay unconscious upon a sofa near the windows. Two other professional-looking gentlemen stood over her, one of whom was fanning her face.
Fairchild presented me: “The English physician, Dr. Benary, the uncle of my wife.”
I was in no mood to be courteous or ceremonious. Having bowed, “Gentlemen, I must beg you to leave me alone with the patient,” I began, addressing the company at large.
My remark created a sensation. The French physicians exchanged perplexed and astonished glances; and a chorus of indignant “Mais, monsieurs,” rose about my ears.
“Fairchild, I am in earnest,” I said. “I insist upon these gentlemen leaving me alone with my niece. I look to you to see that they do so. I have neither the leisure nor the inclination to discuss the matter. Every second is precious.” Somehow or other Fairchild prevailed upon them to withdraw. I suspect they saw that I was in no frame of mind to bear trifling with.
“I may remain?” Fairchild queried.