“There, there, Henry! She’ll pull through.” And he patted the old man on the shoulder.
This was impulse. Upon reflection he moved a little in the chair.
The memory of Neinsoul watching as from a window occurred to him.
He drank a little coffee and got up. But he could find no cigar to suit him. He tried a handful and threw them down. He wandered awhile about the corridors and finally went out. He would walk down to Stetman’s office. It was early, but the lawyer was accustomed to come in early, in order to be undisturbed at his morning’s work.
The air had come in from the sea; it was fresh and vital, and as the man walked he began to recover some measure of his poise. Several blocks down Fifth Avenue, he stopped.
A procession of small children in some religious ceremony was coming up on the other side. He waited until they were opposite; then he crossed. He walked slowly along the line, paused, and, returning, passed it again. He looked with a profound, a consuming, an eager interest at each child.
He watched the procession disappear, took a step or two, and then, hurrying to the curb, began to gesticulate wildly with his stick. A taxicab answered; he plunged in and shouted an address.
Stetman was among his law books when his client entered. He rose from his stooped posture.
“I was working on your matter,” he said.
Arnbush came forward, shouting from the threshold: