"My wife—you examined her yesterday—can you tell me—?" I stumbled over my words.
"Let's see—what name?"
"Mrs. Jevons," I answered.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Jevons—that case." He spoke in a loud tone of voice. All the waiting room was listening.
"There's absolutely no hope, Mr. Jevons. I don't think she will live three months. Good morning."
"No—no—hope! Doctor!" I knew my voice was breaking, and I could feel the eyes of all those sitting there upon me.
"You came too late," he said. "What's the use of coming out here with a case in its last stages? There's no hope."
He went into his room, followed by the woman patient, and banged the door. I stood stunned, dazed, so weak I did not trust myself to take a step; and still the eyes from all around the room stared at me. "You God damned brute!" I muttered under my breath, "God damn your dirty soul!" and staggered toward the doctor's closed door. Then I paused. "After all," I thought, "why should we matter to him?" A great rage against the others sitting there seized me. Had they no decency to stare at me like that? I stiffened. "I won't give them any more show for their money, the loathsome hounds," and I went to the secretary's desk to pay the fee. I was surprised to note that I counted out the bills with a steady hand. She handed me a receipt.
"I am sorry, Mr. Jevons," she said, so the others could not hear.
I looked at her blankly a moment. "Thank you."