“These directions read as if they had been intended for the information of a medical man.”
“They were,” she replied. “They were meant for the doctor who was attending Mr. Bendelow at the time. When we moved to this place I got them from him to show to the new doctor. You are the new doctor.”
“Then you haven’t been here very long?”
“No,” she replied. “We have only just moved in. And that reminds me that our stock of morphia is running out. Could you bring a fresh tube of the tabloids next time you call? My husband left an empty tube for me to give you to remind you what size the tabloids are. He gives Mr. Bendelow the injections.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t want the empty tube. I read the prescription and shan’t forget the dose. I will bring a new tube to-morrow—that is, if you want me to call every day. It seems hardly necessary.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “I should think twice a week would be quite enough. Monday and Thursday would suit me best; if you could manage to come about this time I should be sure to be in. My time is rather taken up, as I haven’t a servant at present.”
It was a bad arrangement. Fixed appointments are things to avoid in medical practice. Nevertheless I agreed to it—subject to unforeseen obstacles—and was forthwith conducted back along the covered way and launched into the outer world with a farewell which it would be inadequate to describe as unemotional.
As I turned away from the door I cast a passing glance at the shop window; and once again I perceived a face above the half-blind. It was a man’s face this time; presumably the face of Mr. Morris. And, like his wife, he seemed to be “taking stock of me.” I returned the attention, and carried away with me the instantaneous mental photograph of a man in that unprepossessing transitional state between being clean-shaved and wearing a beard which is characterized by a sort of grubby prickliness that disfigures the features without obscuring them. His stubble was barely a week old, but as his complexion and hair were dark, the effect was very untidy and disreputable. And yet, as I have said, it did not obscure the features. I was even able, in that momentary glance, to note a detail which would probably have escaped a non-medical eye: the scar of a hare-lip which had been very neatly and skilfully mended, and which a moustache would probably have concealed altogether.
I did not, however, give much thought to Mr. Morris. It was his dour-faced wife, with her gruff, over-bearing manner who principally occupied my reflections. She seemed to have divined in some way that I was but a beginner—perhaps my youthful appearance gave her the hint—and to have treated me with almost open contempt. In truth my position was not a very dignified one. The diagnosis of the case had been made for me, the treatment had been prescribed for me, and was being carried out by other hands than mine. My function was to support a kind of legal fiction that I was conducting the case, but principally to supply the morphia (which a chemist might have refused to do), and when the time came, to sign the death certificate. It was an ignominious rôle for a young and ambitious practitioner, and my pride was disposed to boggle at it. But yet there was nothing to which I could object. The diagnosis was undoubtedly correct, and the treatment and management of the case exactly such as I should have prescribed. Finally I decided that my dissatisfaction was principally due to the unattractive personality of Mrs. Morris; and with this conclusion I dismissed the case from my mind and let my thoughts wander into more agreeable channels.