“I’m not a mind. I’m just a body.”
“Warming itself.”
“Yes.”
“Would it be impertinent to ask you whether you have dined?”
“Nothing is so impertinent as hunger.”
“I’m sorry. I did not quite mean it in that way. As a doctor I have to deal in realities. I have to ask questions, the most intimate of questions. And I am to assume that you have come to see Dr. Morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now we know how we stand.”
He put down the poker. He went to the table in the centre of the room and placed two chairs. He opened a case-book.
“Do you mind sitting here, Mrs. Morrow?”
She rose. She accepted his formalism. She glanced at him nervously and sat down in the chair he had indicated. She watched him writing in his case-book, and suddenly he seemed to become the familiar figure of three years ago, a man with large and deliberate hands and eyes that sometimes made you afraid. She shivered slightly. Her glances wandered round the room.
He looked up at her.
“You have had this cough about two months. You have been short of food, and not properly clothed.”
She flushed.
“Does a doctor criticize a patient’s clothes?”
“Certainly, when you come out in a freezing fog in a coat like that.”
The cough began again, and she tried to fight it back.
“It seems to amuse you.”
He watched her efforts to control the spasm.
“Amuse me? Hardly. I have to go into the history of every case. No facts are without significance.”
“O, yes, history. You want my history?”
He nodded, and suddenly the spasm seemed to pass. She gave a shrug of the shoulders, and began to speak in a casual, toneless voice.
“You want to see me naked? Well, why not? We lost what little money we had in the Hatry smash. For more than a year we have been professional dancers. I suppose you don’t know much about people who have to appear smart and whose underclothing is in holes. No, we haven’t been very successful. Stockings have to be just so, even if your stomach is empty. Back bedrooms, frowsiness. Cadging for meals. Going out at night and being gay when your feet feel broken. Playing up to the silly old fools who pay.”
She broke off breathlessly with a kind of fierce and shallow distress. She clenched her hands. She went on:
“And you can’t stop. You have to go on like the traffic. You don’t know what to-morrow may bring. If you get ill you’re only fit for the dustbin like yesterday’s table decorations. So—now—you know.”
He scribbled something in his case-book.
“Rather different from the life in this stodgy old house. Does Mr. Carthew——?”
“O, leave him out.”
“Can we?” and his voice grew gentler. “Well, for the moment, yes. I’m not a prig, my dear. I was to blame as well as you. You found life dull here. I was the successful doctor, and you wanted someone to play with. Women do, or some women. I should have understood that. Well, let’s get back to the doctoring.”
She looked at him bleakly.
“O, I forgot. I haven’t any money.”
“I’ll waive the fee. But, by the way, does Mr. Carthew know?”
“What?”
“That you are here?”
She hesitated, nodded.
“Yes. You see—he’s waiting.”
“Where?”
“Outside in the street.”
Morrow put his pen down, sat back, and looked at her.
“So he’s waiting in the street. Did he suggest your coming to me?”
“Does that matter?”
“Perhaps not. And he, too, has no fee on him?”
“We haven’t a penny.”
Morrow rose, and going to a bureau in the corner, opened a drawer and took out a stethoscope. He returned to the table.
“Your hand, please. Feel shivery at all?”
“Now and then.”
He felt her pulse, and in the silence, as he counted her heart-beats, he seemed to hear the flutter of her poor tarnished, flimsy wings. Her pulse was rapid, but that might be due to suspense. He asked her various other questions, but her replies to them were confused and vague.
“I shall have to examine your chest. Wait. I’ll go and get a wrap. Everything off to the waist. Yes, it’s necessary.”
He went out of the room, and Kitty Morrow rose slowly and took off her coat. She seemed to be troubled by sudden self-consciousness, but her hesitation lasted only a few seconds. She had moved to the hearthrug and was slipping off her dress when she heard the door open. A hand tossed a red quilt into the room.
“Put this over you. Call when you’re ready.”
She thanked him, and a few seconds later she was moving quickly across the room. She picked up the quilt and arranged it over her shoulders. She went and sat in his chair by the fire.
“I’m ready.”
He reappeared. He observed her for a moment, as though his compassion paused and became aware of her as a frightened child. He spoke gently.
“Just turn that thing aside. That’s right. Breathe quietly.”
She sat rigid and silent while he examined her, her eyes looking up and beyond him. There was apprehension in her stillness, and once or twice she glanced anxiously at his face. It was grave, inscrutable. His very deliberation and thoroughness tantalized her, and when in listening to the breath sounds his head came near to her, she seemed to shrink.
It was over. He folded up the stethoscope. It seemed to her that his face had an immense and frightening seriousness. He stood with his back to the fire, thinking.
“Cover yourself up.”
She shivered.
“I’m not really ill, am I?”
His eyes seemed fixed upon some distant object.
“Afraid so.”
“But not——?”
“There is something in your chest.”
She sat rigid, and he stared at the floor.
“Look here, I shall have to speak to Carthew. I’m afraid it’s necessary. I’d rather speak to him alone. He’s outside in the street?”
“Yes.”
“Take your things into the bedroom, yes, the one that used to be ours. I’ll call Carthew in.”
She looked at him with a strange, distraught stare, and then, mechanically, she gathered up her clothes and moved towards the door. She paused there.
“Must he know?”
“Surely—he’ll want to know?”
“Yes. But—men—are so—— You see—I——”
“That’s all right. Go and dress. No hurry. I’ll call you when I want you.”
He watched her go out. He gave a little nod of the head, and his shoulders seemed to grow bigger. For the thought had come to him that he would put this other man to the test, try him in the stark light of reality. He walked with large, loose strides to the door.
II
Morrow’s voice could be heard on the landing.
“Come in here. I have sent Mrs. Carthew to dress. I had better see you alone.”
Mr. Jack Carthew followed the doctor into the room, a slightly built, sallow, good-looking young man with the little smudge of a black moustache. He was in evening dress, and he carried an opera hat and an overcoat.
“Sorry to break up your evening, doc.”
Morrow was observing him, the waved hair, the dress trousers cut very full, the padded shoulders and waist. This little cad about town had an air of casual completeness, and mouth and eyes that were both insolent and smeary.
“Rather an unconventional occasion—this, doc.”
His voice trailed, and Morrow closed the door.
“You think so? I believe that this is our first meeting.”
Carthew, ridding himself of hat and coat, gave Morrow a little condescending smile.
“Need I introduce myself? Mr. Jack Carthew—Dr. Morrow, the eminent physician; Dr. Morro
w—Mr. Jack Carthew.”
He shook hands with himself. He was very much “it” on all and every occasion, but Morrow cut him short.
“Thanks, that will do. But before we discuss Mrs. Carthew’s case, I should like to ask you a question.”
“No ceremony, doc. By the way, her proper title is still——”
“Exactly. Was it your suggestion that she should come and consult me?”
Carthew walked to the hearthrug and stood with his hands in his pockets. His eyes grew wary.
“Well, partly so. I have been trying to persuade her to see a doctor.”
“And she was shy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Carthew smirked at him.
“The psychology of women, doc, is——”
But Morrow took him up sharply.
“When a woman is ill one doesn’t dose her with cynicism. I may have my own explanation of her shyness.”
“Well, why ask me?”
He felt in a pocket for his cigarette-case, opened it, and found that it was empty. This doctor fellow was rather an unpleasant person. He stared at you. He was abrupt and disconcerting.
“Mind if I cadge a cigarette, doc?”
“One moment. Did you hear me say that she is ill?”
“Obviously. I’m not deaf.”
“Seriously ill.”
Carthew’s face seemed to grow suddenly and significantly alert.
“Not seriously. Just a cold on the chest.”
“I said—seriously.”
“Gosh, doc, you don’t mean to say——?”
“One lung is affected.”
“Good Lord!”
He turned to the fire like a man hiding emotion from another man, and Morrow watched him. How much of the fellow was real? How would he behave in this crisis, this judgment of Solomon? But Carthew was speaking.
“Poor kid. I didn’t like that damned cough of hers. And she has been getting thin. Poor kid.”
He had noticed a silver cigarette-box on the mantelpiece, and he raised the lid and felt for a cigarette.
“It’s so damned sudden, doc. Bit of a shock, you know. What’s to be done?”
Morrow watched him light the cigarette. There was no trembling of the match flame. Carthew’s compassion was a thing preserved in ice.
“She ought to go into a nursing-home—at once—for a more complete examination.”
Carthew blew smoke.
“A nursing-home. Yes, of course. To-morrow, I suppose?”
“No, to-night.”
And Carthew began to fidget.
“You see, doc, the fact is—— Couldn’t she go into a hospital, a private ward? I’m rather——”
“Embarrassed?”
“Exactly. Finance rotten. And these nursing homes are bally rook-shops, aren’t they? Half a guinea every time you ring a bell.”
“Do you connect me with that sort of institution?”
Carthew’s glance was impudent.
“Well, not exactly. I was referring——”
“Some references are superfluous. Now, what is the position?”
“The position is, doc, that I haven’t a bean.”
He flicked ash into the grate. Morrow’s persistence was beginning to irritate him.
“That’s the position, doc.”
And Morrow’s face seemed to harden.
“In an emergency such as this—even beans can sometimes be unearthed. I suggest that you attempt it. I insist on Mrs. Morrow going into a nursing home to-night. She’s not fit to be out in a freezing fog. I will go round myself and make arrangements. Meanwhile, you two can talk it over.”
Carthew made a movement as of shrugging. “O, well, have it that way, if you must.” He threw the cigarette end into the fire and put his hands into his pockets.
“O, all right. I’m not an obstructionist. Send the kid in, and I’ll break the news to her while you fix things up.”
“I want you to be gentle with her.”
“I’ll do my best, doc.”
“Remember, she’s ill.”
Carthew watched the door close, and then bent down to warm himself at the fire. The little, hungry animal in him snarled at fate. “Filthy night, and I’m damned cold.” He was not concerned with the strangeness of the occasion. He had not dined, and to a man who lived for his own body that was an offence and a provocation. A woman like Kitty might be all very well when you felt sleek and warm, but when a woman began to bore you and your pockets were empty—— Why couldn’t she——? He straightened. He found himself regarding the silver cigarette-box on the mantelpiece. He filled his own case from it.
“May as well make use of the blighter.”
He lit a cigarette and, strolling restlessly about the room, he picked up a book from the table and read the title, “The Paranoiac as a Social Problem.” Good Lord! Fancy living with a chap who fed on stuff like that! He threw the book down, and glanced at the bracket clock over the bureau. Twenty past nine! Damn it, how much longer was she going to be?
There was a telephone on the bureau. He crossed the room, listened, hesitated. Why not ring up the new adventure, Medea and the Golden Fleece? He had his hand on the receiver when the door opened and Kitty Morrow came in. He turned quickly from the bureau, but she had seen and understood.
She closed the door and stood with her back to it.
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter? Nothing. Have a cigarette.”
“Has he told you?”
“O, well—yes, he told me.”
“You were going to ’phone somebody.”
“When one’s on the rocks one sends out an S O S.”
She was watching his face.
“Are we on the rocks?”
“Pretty thoroughly, aren’t we?”
“Jack, what did he tell you?”
“He wants you to go into a nursing home. He has gone out to make arrangements.”
“But what did he tell you? O, Jack, I’m frightened.”
He looked at her slantwise.
“Poor kid.”
She seemed to shrink against the door, and he went to the fire and stood staring.
“Come and sit down. Warm yourself.”
But she remained by the door as though unable to move.
“Why are you so funny, Jack? Just as if——”
He shrugged. His voice was casually kind. He spoke carefully.
“Fact is—we’re up against it, kid. No use scrapping with fate, is it? I’m damned sorry.”
He did not look at her frightened face.
“Well, there it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He seems to think there’s something pretty wrong with your chest. Rotten luck. Of course—I had to tell him——”
“What?”
“That we haven’t a bean.”
“You told him that?”
“Well, hang it, I had to.”
She pressed her spread arms against the door, as though her knees were failing her and she was afraid of slipping down.
“I don’t quite understand you.”
He gave an impatient flick of the head.
“Fact is, we’ve got to face the music. Isn’t it obvious that I’m not going to be much use to you in a mix-up like this?”
“You mean—that because I’m ill——?”
“I’m damned sorry, kid. Be reasonable. I haven’t the price of a box of pills. If I had—— But there you are. We’ve got to think of what’s best for you.”
Her face seemed to grow thin and small like a child’s.
“Reasonable! That’s a stunning word—isn’t it? Jack, you can’t——”
“Now, look here, kid, let’s face the realities. Isn’t it obvious that I’m no more use?”
“Realities! No more use! You mean—I am no more use.”
“Now, don’t get excited. You women——”
She seemed to steady herself. She moistened dry lips and spoke.<
br />
“Jack, supposing this house were a ship and we were going down, would you make for the boats and leave me?”
He made a movement of impatience.
“O, don’t exaggerate. I’m leaving you in a boat. This isn’t a sentimental world for people who have to cadge for a dinner. Haven’t you found that out? I’m being honest. I’m not giving you any sentimental guff. You’re ill. You’ve got to face the reality. Put on silk and let Morrow——”
“You mean—let him pay?”
He smiled at her.
“Well—for the moment. I may be able to raise some cash.”
She crossed the room as far as the table and paused there with one hand resting on it.
“O, I see. That’s the idea. I’m to be left at the mercy of the man whom we——”
“Well, legally—he is still your husband. He must be simply rolling these days. I’m not a fool. I want to do what’s best for you, and I’m not being hypersensitive about it.”
“Hypersensitive! Do you think——?”
But she began to cough, and once again the spasm was beyond control. With flushed face and suffused eyes she stood there in distress, looking at him pitifully, and presently between her pantings she managed to get out a few words.
“Jack, don’t be such a beast to me, just when——”
His impatience betrayed itself; he looked at the clock.
“Look here, kid—I can’t stand your coughing.”
And suddenly she blazed.
“No, it kept you awake. It frightened me, but it bored you. Yes, perhaps I am beginning to understand. I didn’t want to come here. It was you who were keen for me to come.”
His shifty eyes met hers.
“Well, of course. I wanted the thing cleared up. I——”
“You wanted to find out something else.”
“O, did I?”
“Whether I was going to be of any more use to you, or only a wretched sick thing, a nuisance, a——”
He flared.
“O, go on, tear it to bits! Wasn’t I worried?”
She stood observing him as though seeing him for the first time as he was. Her scrutiny both embarrassed and irritated him. He glanced at the door. At any moment that other man might come back.
She spoke steadily, deliberately, for the spasm had passed.
“I’m seeing things, Jack, with a terrible sort of clearness. When I came in you were going to telephone. Do you think I don’t know that there is the other woman, the new woman? Yes, I understand. I’m finished. I’m last year’s fox-trot.”
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