The doctor looked at him thoughtfully. He was quite a young man, tall, fair-haired, and fresh-coloured, with a look about him of vigorous health that was heartening and must have been a great asset to him in his profession.
"I am going to advise you not to go back to work at all."
"What!" cried Peter Reid, getting very red, for he was not accustomed to being patient when people gave him unpalatable advice. Then something that he saw—was it pity?—in the doctor's face made him white and faint.
"You—you can't mean that I'm really ill?"
"You may live for years—with care."
"I shall get another opinion," said Peter Reid.
"Certainly—here, sit down." The doctor felt very sorry for this hard little business man whose world had fallen about his ears. Peter Reid sat down heavily on the chair the doctor gave him.
"I tell you, I don't feel ill—not to speak of. And I've no time to be ill. I have a deal on just now that I stand to make thousands out of—thousands, I tell you."
"I'm sorry," James Lauder said.
"Of course, I'll see another man, though it means throwing away more money. But"—his face fell—"they told me you were the best man for the heart…. Leave my work! The thing's ridiculous Patch me up and I'll go on till I drop. How long do you give me?"