“I’m sorry,” I said, rising from the stool. “I’m intruding....”
“You’re all right,” he mumbled. “So you heard about it from that femme fatale, did you? Damn that man! Bla, bla, bla!”
Those worried but faintly amused eyes were on me. “Been hearing quite a lot about you lately. Nurses would have your dossier complete by now if they could understand English. You seem to have put your foot in it somewhere. Rather sorry for you if....”
This bantering ... medical bantering! Only doctors dare do it. “Well, how are we to-day?” But by paying close attention to the game I had scored one point. She was delirious. So far, delirious. Then ... “if!”
“Masters,” I said, “are you telling me that she is dying?”
“Mm ...” he muttered impatiently, and as he jumped up from his chair the rough brown great-coat seemed to fill the dingy lodge. It smelt of England, that coat. And, protruding from it, that sharp, naked, weary face with the worried eyes....
“Look here, Masters—”
“Here you are,” he muttered. I could not understand why he muttered. “Here you are” until I found a cigarette in one hand and one of those wretched spirit-lighters in the other. A man without conviction even in his ability to strike a match....
“Known her for years,” he muttered towards his feet. “At Deauville that year ... terrible for her. Poor child....”
“Masters, you said Donna Guelãra might die. You know you did. But she didn’t, did she?”