Then the doctor's carriage-wheels were heard, and he came up-stairs, ushered by Irene, who stood in the doorway, listening and looking with a sort of alien expression, as if she herself were immortal, and sneered and wondered at it all.
Ida greeted the doctor in her usual manner. “Good-evening, doctor,” she said, smiling. “I am sorry to have disturbed you at this hour, but Mr. Edgham has an acute attack of indigestion and I could not rouse him, and I thought it hardly wise to wait until morning.”
The doctor, who was an old man, unshaven and grim-faced, nodded and went up to the bed. He did not open his medicine-case after he had looked at Harry.
“I suppose you can give him something, doctor?” Ida said.
“There is nothing that mortal man can do, madam,” said the doctor, surlily. He disliked Ida Edgham, and yet he felt apologetic towards her that he could do nothing. He in reality felt testily apologetic towards all mankind that he could not avert death at last.
Ida's brilliant color faded then; she ceased to smile. “I think I should have been told,” she said, with a sort of hard indignation.
The doctor said nothing. He stood holding Harry's hand, his fingers on the pulse.
“You surely do not mean me to understand that my husband is dying?” said Ida.
“He cannot last more than a few hours, madam,” replied the doctor, with pitilessness, yet still with the humility of one who has failed in a task.
“I think we had better have another doctor at once,” said Ida. “Irene, go down street to the telegraph operator and tell him to send a message for Dr. Lameth.”