I reported to him what I had done. He then went in and looked at Heloise and asked a few questions.
Occasionally his eyes flitted about the shabby room. Then he would dart little glances at her and at me.
He was a depressing person, this young physician. It was clear enough the impression he got of us.
Heloise felt it keenly. I saw that little droop of sadness coming about her mouth.
Then he told me that I had done about everything he could have done, that she would be all right in a day or so, and that she had had a rather lucky escape.
He left a little medicine, and went away. We both felt that he did not care to have us call him again; and we each knew that the other felt this, though we did not put it in words.
Finally I said, after I had sat by her for a time in moody silence—
“It is very late, dear. I rather think you will sleep to-night, in spite of the coffee and all.”
“Yes,” she said, “I think I will. And you, Anthony”—she caught my hand—“I don't like to see you look so tired.”
“I shall sleep,” I replied. Then I kissed her forehead, and went into my own room, leaving the door ajar in order that I might hear if she called.