He recovered himself with an immense, an incredible effort. He wanted to laugh, to exult, to call on the world to see his work, what he had done for her, how peaceful she was, and happy. He was as near madness as a sane man could be, but by the time his partner came he composed his face and spoke with professional gravity:
“I am afraid you are too late.”
Dr. Lansdowne, hurrying in, wore his habitual grin.
“I always knew it would end like this. Didn’t I tell you so? An aneurism. I diagnosed it a long time ago.” He had even forgotten his diagnosis. “I suppose you’ve tried ... so and so?” He recapitulated the remedies. Stevens, stunned by the calamity, but not so far as to make her forget to pull down the blinds, listened and realised Dr. Kennedy had left nothing undone.
“I suppose there will have to be an inquest?”
“An inquest! My dear fellow. An inquest! What for? I have seen her and diagnosed, prognosed. You have attended her for weeks under my direction. Unless her family wish it, it is quite unnecessary. I shall be most pleased to give a death certificate. You have informed the relatives, of course?”
“Not yet.”
Stevens emitted one dry sob which represented her entire emotional capacity, and hastened to ring up Queen Anne’s Gate. Dr. Lansdowne began to talk directly she left them alone. He told his silent colleague of an eructation that troubled him after meals, and of a faint tendency to gout. Then cast a perfunctory glance at the sofa.
“Pretty woman!” he said. “All that money, too!”
Peter, suddenly, inexplicably unable to stand, sank on his knees by the sofa, hid his face in her dress. Dr. Lansdowne said. “God bless my soul!” Peter broke into tears like a girl.