"What have you thought, Miss Brock?" I turned to the trained nurse. She was a level-headed, taciturn person, with a quiet way of always doing her work exactly as expected of her. It suddenly occurred to me I had not asked her opinion before.
"I have had a good deal of experience with tuberculosis patients, Mr. Jevons. I confess I have been worried about Mrs. Jevons since I first came into the case."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Well, Mr. Jevons—I'm not a doctor. It's not my business to offer opinions or to make a diagnosis. Besides, Mr. Jevons—seeing you with Mrs. Jevons every day, who could tell you? I've seen a lot of death and suffering in my hospital work—I thought I was callous. I guess I'm not."
A grey cloud caught on the summit of one of the mountains and spread along below the topmost ridge. I watched it slowly blotting out the crest of the range.
"Do you object if I smoke?" the doctor inquired.
"No—pray do," I said. I felt tired, old—as if youth had suddenly left me. Miss Brock got up and went into the house.
"Doctor," I pleaded again. "Is there anything we can try—however new or experimental—whatever the risk, as long as it offers just one chance—one?"
He shook his head. "I know of nothing, Mr. Jevons, that will cause new lung tissue to grow."
I knew my question was hopeless; I had read the best medical works on tuberculosis since this had come to Helen, but one struggles for a gleam of hope to the end.