In the still room the other watchers came and went noiselessly, with the question continually on their lips: “Is she better?”
During those long days, when it was neither life nor death, Philip came frequently to make his inquiries, to be confronted by the vision of Mrs. Perkins' tear-stained countenance or, what was worse—to encounter Perkins.
He would wander in their company aimlessly from room to room, or with them listen at her door, seeing in his fancy Franz sitting, a blind sentinel, counting the minutes that stole up out of the lap of time to bear her away.
It was the evening of the fourth day. The doctor had just left the sick chamber to be met at the foot of the stairs by the three anxious friends.
“What are the chances?” Philip asked.
He shook his head. Then addressing Philip: “It may be well for you to stay here to-night. She is failing rapidly.”
Philip looked at him stupidly.
Perkins seized the doctor by the shoulder almost savagely: “Why don't you save her?” he demanded. “Why don't you?”
“I am doing all I can. The cure should have commenced weeks ago. I said then what should be done.”
He pushed past them, glad of the opportunity to escape that their momentary panic afforded; but Philip followed him from the house, and as the doctor turned—a lighted match between his fingers, for he was arranging to make his walk home comfortable with a cigar, Philip said, “Do you mean she will die? Is there no hope?”