She watched him placidly.
He was a short, dark man with a dark mustache that managed, somehow, at once to bristle and to droop. His clothes were shabby and creased with little folds and wrinkles across the ample front, and he sat well forward in his chair to eat the sandwiches.
There was something a little grotesque about him perhaps.
But to Aunt Jane's absent-minded gaze, it may be, there was nothing grotesque in the short, stout figure, eating its sandwiches.... She had seen it too many times roused to fierce struggle, holding death at arm's length and fighting, inch by inch, for a life that was slipping away. To her Dr. Carmon was not so much a man, as a mighty gripping force that did things when you needed him.
"I suppose I was hungry," he said.
He picked up the last crumb of sandwich and smiled at her.
Aunt Jane nodded. "You needed something to eat."
"And some one to tell me to eat it," he replied. And with the words he was gone.
The next minute Aunt Jane, sitting in the office, heard the warning toot of his motor as it turned the corner of the next street and was off for the day's work.