Virginia made a quick noise, but Ivor would have none of that.
“You might go in the afternoon!” she pleaded.
“Now you are being silly,” he only said to that; and put on his hat, a soft gray thing which he was quite unable to wear straight.
“Well, go, then!” Virginia cried with feverish venom. She had asked him to read her a Shaw play, and he was going to fetch a doctor! “Oh, the fool!” Virginia wildly thought, in the impatient surge of her weakness.
2
Ivor paced about the garden while the doctor was within the studio: and he had no eyes for the glory of the July morning over Paris, they worried the ground and distance with dark absence.
At last Dr. David came out, and Ivor walked with him to his car: through a small green door, up a narrow passage between two dingy houses, and through a wide door on to the pavement of the Place.
“The operation must be next week,” Dr. David told him, as they walked.
“Oh!” said Ivor; then turned frankly to the old man. “Tell me, doctor, is this operation really serious or not?”
“Well, it is not negligible,” the old man answered. “But it isn’t really serious—particularly in the hands of Ian Black. It will be painful for her, you understand—I am afraid Lady Tarlyon will consider that part of it extremely serious. But I should say as little as possible to her about the pain, if I were you. I daresay you know all there is to know about pain....”