XIX
A WOMAN IN THE GARDEN
“When it comes, it may come all at once,” the surgeon had said, “and overwhelm him. Better lead up to it—if we can—let him recall it—a bit here—a bit there—feel his way back—to the old place—to himself.”
“Where my child is,” said Philip Harris.
“Where your child is,” repeated the surgeon, “and that clue runs through the frailest, intangiblest matter that fingers ever touched.” He had looked down at his own thin, long, firm fingers as if doubting that they could have held that thread for a moment and left it intact.
Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. “There has not been a word for seven weeks,” he said, “not a breath—”
“They told you—?” said the surgeon.
“That they would wait three months! Yes!” Philip Harris puffed fiercely. “It is hell!” he said.
“The boy is better,” said the surgeon. “You have only to wait a little longer now.”