Roderick looked up at him. The young man had come into the room with Dr. Berger, but not till this moment had he noticed him. He stared, and a light, brighter even than the fever had brought, leaped into his eyes.
"Wells!" he cried. "Is it Dick Wells?"
"Dick Wells, it is," said the other, smiling, pleased that he had created such a complete diversion. He took the patient's left hand and shook it with a cordiality that was not returned.
"I haven't seen you since old 'Varsity days, Rod. And 'pon my word I didn't know you for a minute. We'll see you through this all right; don't worry."
Roderick was staring at him in a disconcerting way.
"Where have you been since you graduated?" he asked.
That harsh unsmiling manner was not at all like the Roderick McRae he had known in college, but the young man laid the change to his fevered condition.
"Here, in Montreal. Next year I hope to go to Europe." He made a sign to the nurse who entered, and quietly began preparing the arm for its operation. Roderick did not pay any attention to even her blue uniform this time, his eyes were fixed with a fierce intentness upon the young doctor's face. Wells had always been known as a very handsome fellow, but his appearance had not improved; he had grown stouter and coarser. He was still good-looking, however, and his manner had the old easy kindness Roderick remembered. He was just going to ask him another abrupt question, when the young doctor slipped his finger over the patient's pulse, and began talking quietly and soothingly.
"And you went back to your old home town, didn't you? Let me see—" his casual air did not deceive his alert listener—"Algonquin's your home, isn't it?"
"Yes."