In a few moments Dr. Willets came in. He also was calm, business like, energetic. He was dressed in a black suit and white linen jacket, but took that off, leaving the room as he did so, and returned with his sleeves rolled up and his body incased in a long white apron, such as Eugene had seen butchers wear. He went over to Angela and began working with her, saying something to the nurse beside him which Eugene did not hear. He could not look—he dared not at first.
At the fourth or fifth convulsive shriek, a second doctor came in, a young man of Willets' age, and dressed as he was, who also took his place beside him. Eugene had never seen him before. "Is it a case of forceps?" he asked.
"I can't tell," said the other. "Dr. Lambert is handling this personally. He ought to be here by now."
There was a step in the hall and the senior physician or obstetrician had entered. In the lower hall he had removed his great coat and fur gloves. He was dressed in his street clothes, but after looking at Angela, feeling her heart and temples, he went out and changed his coat for an apron, like the others. His sleeves were rolled up, but he did not immediately do anything but watch the house surgeon, whose hands were bloody.
"Can't they give her chloroform?" asked Eugene, to whom no one was paying any attention, of Miss De Sale.
She scarcely heard, but shook her head. She was busy dancing attendance on her very far removed superiors, the physicians.
"I would advise you to leave the room," said Dr. Lambert to Eugene, coming over near him. "You can do nothing here. You will be of no assistance whatsoever. You may be in the way."
Eugene left, but it was only to pace agonizedly up and down the hall. He thought of all the things that had passed between him and Angela—the years—the struggles. All at once he thought of Myrtle, and decided to call her up—she wanted to be there. Then he decided for the moment he would not. She could do nothing. Then he thought of the Christian Science practitioner. Myrtle could get her to give Angela absent treatment. Anything, anything—it was a shame that she should suffer so.
"Myrtle," he said nervously over the phone, when he reached her, "this is Eugene. Angela is suffering terribly. The birth is on. Can't you get Mrs. Johns to help her? It's terrible!"
"Certainly, Eugene. I'll come right down. Don't worry."