“Dr. Ivery will see Mrs. Challoner,” he announced, as if she were one of a waiting group. “Will you walk this way, madam.”
She followed him along a gloomy passage. He ushered her into a room, cheerful and homelike compared with that she had left. This got the last of the day’s brightness through a big west window overlooking some open space; it was lined with books; a great blue jar filled with red flowers stood in one corner; one or two homely crayon portraits and weak little water-colours hung immediately behind the doctor, as he sat in front of his desk.
“Mrs. Challoner?” he said, half-interrogatively. He had never seen her in walking dress before. There was a suggestion of anxiety in his tone.
“Yes, Mrs. Challoner, Pelham Street,” she humbly explained. “Will you forgive me, sir, and tell me if I am doing wrong. I so want to speak to you about my husband.”
“Ah, your husband,” echoed the doctor. “Yes, yes—nothing wrong anew, I hope.”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “All is going on well, so well that I know——” she paused. “I want to consult you privately, Dr. Ivery. I could get no opportunity while Charlie was so very ill, and since he has been better only the young doctor has come, so I thought if I might visit you here—if you will forgive me?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Challoner, certainly. A private conversation with a patient’s nearest friend is often as much a physician’s duty as writing a prescription. Tell me just what is on your mind about your husband.”
Dr. Ivery was a tall spare man with a silvered head very high and full at the top. His composed face softened as he met the eager searching eyes of the young wife. This was a woman who must have the truth. He thanked God inwardly that though the truth for her must be hard enough, yet it was not the hardest!
“It is the future, sir,” she said, schooling her voice to absolute calmness. “Charlie is already talking of returning to the office.”
“The season of the year is against him,” remarked the physician, guardedly.