“I was up all night,” he said shortly. And then they were silent for a few minutes—Bessie all the while burning with curiosity.
“What poor creatures even the strongest of us are, after all!” said Mr. Guildford suddenly.
“Do you mean about feeling tired?” said Bessie. “Being up all night is enough to knock up any one.”
“It was not that only I was thinking of,” he replied. “I did not think I was still so impressionable. I wish Dr. Farmer had not suggested my being sent for.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Crichton with surprise and curiosity.
“There was nothing to be done. I was called in too late—but, indeed, I strongly suspect nothing could have been done from the beginning. I see so many hopeless cases in my regular round, that it is depressing to be summoned to another outside it. No, I am sure nothing could have been done.”
“Perhaps it is that you are so much cleverer than other doctors that you see sooner when there is nothing to be done,” suggested his sister.
But Mr. Guildford hardly seemed to hear what she said. “He must always have been exceedingly fragile,” he went on as if thinking aloud.
“Was the person dead before you got there?” asked Bessie.
“No, not till early this morning,” said her brother. “It was very painful—no, not exactly painful, sad and pitiful rather.”