Herman Medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression.
Dr. Carmon scanned it. He set down the black bag and drew up a chair.
"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. He seated himself firmly in the chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. All the little fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for Dr. Carmon were alert and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee—surveying Herman Medfield.
"What is the matter?" he said.
"I don't know." Medfield's tone was indifferent. "I feel worse—general distress—heaviness."
"Any pain?" The doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out the stethoscope.
He adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer. Medfield made an obliging movement forward.
"Stay where you are," said the doctor gruffly. He leaned forward and placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his head.
The two men were silent. Medfield with his head against the back of the chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears.