“I came, you see, Dr. Edwardes.”
Now and then, when some one came to him for help, which was generally money, he used Christine's parlor, if she happened to be out. So now, finding the door ajar, and the room dark, he went in and turned on the light.
“Come in here; we can talk better.”
She did not sit down at first; but, observing that her standing kept him on his feet, she sat finally. Evidently she found it hard to speak.
“You were to come,” K. encouraged her, “to see if we couldn't plan something for you. Now, I think I've got it.”
“If it's another hospital—and I don't want to stay here, in the city.”
“You like surgical work, don't you?”
“I don't care for anything else.”
“Before we settle this, I'd better tell you what I'm thinking of. You know, of course, that I closed my hospital. I—a series of things happened, and I decided I was in the wrong business. That wouldn't be important, except for what it leads to. They are trying to persuade me to go back, and—I'm trying to persuade myself that I'm fit to go back. You see,”—his tone was determinedly cheerful, “my faith in myself has been pretty nearly gone. When one loses that, there isn't much left.”
“You had been very successful.” She did not look up.