It was one morning. Phyllis was on the landing not far from the door of the sick room. She was waiting, as was her custom, for the surgeon's report. He had been with his patient longer than usual and the girl was worried, and more than usually depressed. All sorts of fancies had taken hold of her imagination, and she feared a change for the very worst. At last the door opened and she saw the man's slim figure emerge.
He saw her, too. He knew she would be there. Now his eyes had lost their usual cheerfulness. His brows were knitted, and he looked troubled. He shook his head as he came up.
"No improvement, my dear young lady," he said, in his crisp way.
"None? None at all?" The girl's face fell.
The man shook his head again.
"It is—quite extraordinary," he said thoughtfully. "She is comparatively young. I should say she was normally a—healthy woman. The operation was absolutely successful. She—she ought to be better—very much better. It almost seems—as if she doesn't want to recover."
"Oh, but," the girl cried impulsively, and broke off. All of a sudden the man's final remark became full of significance to her woman's mind.
"But—what?" inquired the man, with his amiable smile.
"I—I don't know," declared Phyllis lamely.
The man shook his head.