“Then I’ll tell you,” Snow said quietly, “if you will regard it as professional confidence.”
“Of course, of course. But—you know? Out with it, for Heaven’s sake, man!” But the physician’s eager voice was more skeptical than eager.
“Homesickness,” Snow told him.
“By Jove, you don’t believe that!” Dr. Foster was openly contemptuous. But, even so, he was interested. “Go on,” he commanded. “How do you make that out?”
“I know Sên King-lo well, and I know his race,” Snow replied.
“Well—well,” the physician said after a pause. “I wonder—we might have tried it—strange things turn out true ones sometimes—I wonder—we might have tried it—sending him back to China—but, I’m afraid it’s too late now. By Jove, I wish I’d been on the track of this case six months ago!”
“No,” Sir Charles Snow told him, “you might not have tried it. He would not go.”
“Tut! tut! A sick man must do what he’s told, to get well.”
Snow made no reply.
“I’d give a good deal to have been called in sooner—six months ago or more,” the physician repeated.