"Yes."
The millionaire's glance fell. "Very well. I shall do as you say, of course." He moved a little away and sat down.
Aunt Jane's glance followed him—the look in it changed subtly. Something that had been in it up in the Children's Ward came back.
"You can have your lawyer here," she said almost kindly. "We've got plenty of pens and paper and ink. And you can tell him all you want to without going to any office, I guess. Now I'll go get this made for you; and you be ready to have it on when I come back."
She opened the door and went out.
The two men looked at each other like two boys—and smiled. Both boys had had mothers. Herman Medfield's mother had worn a cap, an aristocratic affair of ribbons and lace that had little relation to the clear-starched whiteness of Aunt Jane's muslin strings; Dr. Carmon's mother had never known what it was to cover her smooth-parted hair under a cap—she had been a hard-working woman and far removed from Mrs. Oliver Medfield's way of life. But the two men, as they watched Aunt Jane disappear, had a sudden common sense of motherly protection and wisdom; and they smiled across to each other in almost shamefaced understanding.
"It really is better not to wait—" said the doctor, half apologetically: "It might be all right. But we're taking chances enough as it is—without that."
The professional look had come back to his face. He was looking absently before him at something unseen.