[VII]
Herman Medfield sat in the spacious sitting-room of Suite A, his paper spread out before him and his breakfast on the invalid table that had been wheeled up to the window. He had found the table with its tray of coffee and eggs and toast, an easy chair drawn up beside it, and the morning paper by his plate, ready for him when he came from his comfortable bath.
He had opened the paper, but not the eggs.... He read a few lines in the paper and glanced down at the table with a little scowl and pushed it from him.
Dr. Carmon had insisted on his being at the hospital for three or four days before the operation. He wanted to watch him and control conditions, he had said. It would make his decision easier.
The millionaire sitting in the window frowned a little and drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair.
He took up the paper and glanced at it again and threw it down.
One of the conditions had been that he should have no cigars. He had understood and agreed to it.
But this morning he was impatient with himself and annoyed with Dr. Carmon. These doctors had no end of theories—useless theories—that did more harm than good. He should be in no shape for an operation—if he could not keep his nerve better than this. He really needed a cigar.
He pressed the knob of the electric cord that reached to his chair and took up the paper again.