Still the little man did not speak, though his eyes showed that he understood every word. Clifford was provoked at the manner in which Loveman ignored him.
“Haven’t you any come-back at all, Loveman—you were usually quick enough with your tongue.”
“See here—what are you doing with my patient?” a sharp voice called from the door.
Clifford turned. Approaching was Dr. Peters.
“He may be your patient, but he is my prisoner,” Clifford returned stiffly, still under the influence of his revived fury. But at once he was himself again. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Peters, but this man here is responsible for all that has happened.” And then: “He seems to have very much of a grouch against me—rather natural, I suppose. He wouldn’t even say a word to me. What’s the matter with him?”
“What’s the matter?” Dr. Peters repeated, looking at him keenly. Then he drew Clifford aside, out of Loveman’s hearing. “All that’s the matter with Mr. Loveman,” he answered slowly, “is that the accident caused a hemorrhage affecting the sensory and motor portions of the brain causing a permanent aphasia.”
“What’s that mean, doctor, in plain English?”
“It means that he has permanently lost the use of legs and arms, and that he’ll never speak again.”
Clifford stared. “But he seems to understand!” he cried.
“He understands everything. His brain is as good as it ever was, and it will be as good as ever for perhaps thirty years to come. But by no possibility can he ever communicate to a second person what that brain is thinking of.”