At the end of one cigarette he threw away the paper and looked sleepily at the clock, thanking Heaven that he was not a doctor. At this rate Gaisford would not be home by midnight; and he must have had a heavy day to be calling on patients after dinner... The sleepiness dropped from Eric’s brain as he remembered an early bulletin from the nurse, telling him that for the future Dr. Gaisford saw no need to come more than once a day. The most overworked doctor would not be paying his first visit at a quarter-past ten at night; this was the second visit, and Ivy had undergone a relapse; or the third, the fourth... If Ivy were dying, they would have sent for him... Telegrams took long.... But Lashmar Mill-House was on the telephone... Trunk-calls took long, too... But he had not left home till after five... Perhaps they had forgotten, perhaps they had been too busy... But one could add “perhaps” to “perhaps” like paper bows to the tail of a kite... This was the discordant jangle of snapping nerves....
He sat long enough to recover self-possession, then strolled unconcernedly into the hall. The hat and stick were still there, the note in the hat. He bent down to read his own words and wondered why Gaisford, of all men, had abandoned his traditional silk hat for a bowler... A sporting bowler, too with flat brim. He was trying to remember whether there were any races near London to explain the unseemly hat and the doctor’s no less unseemly hour for calling, when he noticed violet-ink initials over the maker’s name.
The doctor was Richard or Robert Gaisford, Eric could not remember which; certainly not “J.” As he began to be certain that “J. G.” could only stand for John Gaymer, Eric told himself in an audible whisper that he had to be very calm; if there were anything in the old, hysterical premonition of a stand-up fight with Gaymer, it would take place in less than five minutes.
He inspected the hat carefully, as though it were filled with clues and secrets, then replaced it on the table, withdrew his note and walked quietly down the passage to Ivy’s room. The door was ajar, and he could hear perhaps half Gaymer’s words, when he dropped his voice, and everything, when he raised it.
“If you admit it, there’s nothing more to be said. D’you like the prospect of being married for fifty years to one man when you’re in love with another? Oh, it’s too late now, you’ve admitted it. I never had any doubt. You’ve got to get out of it; and the sooner the better... It’s no good denying it, Ivy; we’ve gone through all that. Look me in the eyes... Ivy, do as I tell you—now. You have to do as I tell you. You’ve never loved him as you loved me. Give me your hand. You don’t shiver when you touch him, you don’t belong to him.... Kiss me, Ivy. I said, ‘Kiss me, Ivy’.” There was a laugh of contemptuous affection. “There!... So valiant we were! So independent—at a distance! Kiss me again—on my lips... Did you think I’d let you go so easily? Didn’t you know that, if I stood at the back of the church when you were being married and just said ‘Ivy, come here’...? You knew that, and I knew that.”
Eric found himself sitting on a chair half-way down the passage. Ivy was being bewitched; obviously he must not allow her to be bullied like this... Somebody ought to go in and stop it....
“I’ve promised Eric,” she was saying quietly.
“And d’you think I care about that? He can’t hold you to your promise, if you don’t want to marry him. You love me, Ivy. Say it again!”
There was no answer.
“Say it again!,” repeated Gaymer.