She went to him silently every hour to give him food or medicine or to take his temperature. She recorded on her chart heat mounting to fever, and a pulse staggering in its awful haste. He was submissive as long as she was silent, but at a word his thin hand waved in its agonized gesture.
Once he kissed her hands that gave him his drink.
"Poor little thing," he said, "it's so frightened—always was. Never mind—It'll soon be over—only—don't come again" (he had to whisper it), "if you don't mind—till I ring."
She sat listening then for his bell.
Rose came and stayed with her a little while. She wanted to know what the Doctor had said to-day.
"He says he must choose between his genius and his life. And it's I who have to choose. If he goes on he'll kill himself. If I stop him I shall kill him. What am I to do?"
Rose had her own opinion of the dilemma, and no great opinion of the Doctor.
"Do nothin'," she said, and pondered on it. "Look at it sensible. You may depend upon it 'e's found somethin' 'e's got to do. 'E's set 'is 'eart on finishin' it. Don't you cross 'im. I don't believe in crossin' them when they're set."
"And if he dies, Rose? If he dies?"
"'E dies 'is way—not yours."