"Put them somewhere else," he said irritably.
A little clear color flushed up in her face. "Would you like them on the table?" she asked.
"Yes—please."
She removed the vase and placed it on the table across the room and went out.
He stared at the heading on the paper: "My dear Julian." After all, what was there he could say to the boy? He could tell him he was in a hospital. But that might seem weak—as if he wanted sympathy—because he was down.... Herman Medfield never asked for sympathy; his heart was especially hard toward men who did. They were always the devils who were down and out—that asked for sympathy—and hoped to get some of his money to waste—as they had wasted their own. He would give hundreds to a man who stood up to him—when he would not give a dollar to the one that whined.
He dipped the pen again and wrote rapidly—a mere note, telling the boy that he was away from home for a while—under the doctor's orders, nothing serious, nothing to worry any one; he should be around again in a few days. He signed it grimly and hunted up the banker's address and directed and sealed it.... That was done! He pushed the letter from him. He was tired. He wanted a cigar.
There was a quick knock at the door. Dr. Carmon had finished his operation and made his round of visits in the hospital and he was doing Suite A.
Herman Medfield greeted him with relief. "Come in," he said. "Come in and sit down.... I am sorry I cannot offer you a cigar," he added with a little humorous sigh.
The doctor sat down. "Hard work, is it?"