George wiped his forehead. He could not credit the words. “No doubt whatever? In what sense?”
“In the bad sense,” said the other.
He began to write a prescription, without seeming to notice how George turned page with terror. “Come,” he said, after a silence, “you must have known the truth pretty well.”
“No, no, sir!” exclaimed George.
“Well,” said the other, “you have syphilis.”
George was utterly stunned. “My God!” he exclaimed.
The doctor, having finished his prescription, looked up and observed his condition. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. Out of every seven men you meet upon the street, in society, or at the theater, there is at least one who has been in your condition. One out of seven—fifteen per cent!”
George was staring before him. He spoke low, as if to himself. “I know what I am going to do.”
“And I know also,” said the doctor, with a smile. “There is your prescription. You are going to take it to the drugstore and have it put up.”
George took the prescription, mechanically, but whispered, “No, sir.”