I
The door of the long, dreary room, with its mahogany chairs, its
littered table, its motley crew of pale, silent people, opened
noiselessly. A dreary, lean footman appeared in the aperture, bowing
towards a corner where, in a recess near a forlorn, lofty window, sat a
tall, athletic-looking man of about forty-five years of age, with a
strong yet refined face, clean shaven, and short, crisp, dark hair. The
tall man rose immediately, laying down an old number of _Punch_, and
made his way out, watched rather wolfishly by the other occupants of the
room. The door closed upon him, and there was a slight rustle and a hiss
of whispering.
Two well-dressed women leaned to one another, the feathers in their hats
almost mingling as they murmured: "Not much the matter with him, I
should fancy."
"He looks as strong as a horse; but modern men are always imagining
themselves ill. He has lived too much, probably."
They laughed in a suppressed ripple.
At the end of the room near the door, under the big picture of a grave
man in a frock-coat, holding a double eye-glass tentatively in his right
hand as if to emphasise an argument--a young girl bent towards her
father, who said to her in a low voice:
"That man who has just left the room is Brune, the great sculptor."
"Is he ill?" the girl asked.
"It seems so, since he is here."
Then a silence fell again, broken only by the rustle of turned pages and
the occasional uneasy shifting of feet.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in a small room across the hall, by a window through which
the autumn sun streamed with a tepid brightness, Reginald Brune lay on a
narrow sofa. His coat and waistcoat were thrown open; his chest was
bared. Gerard Fane, the great discoverer of hidden diseases, raised
himself from a bent posture, and spoke some words in a clear, even
voice.
Brune lifted himself half up on his elbow, and began mechanically to
button the collar of his shirt. His long fingers did not tremble, though
his face was very pale.
He fastened the collar, arranged his loose tie, and then sat up slowly.
A boy, clanking two shining milk-cans, passed along the pavement,
whistling a music-hall song. The shrill melody died down the street, and
Brune listened to it until there was a silence. Then he looked up at
the man opposite to him, and said, as one dully protesting, without
feeling, without excitement:--
"But, doctor, I was only married three weeks ago."
Gerard Fane gave a short upward jerk of the head, and said nothing. His
face was calmly grave. His glittering brown eyes were fastened on his
patient. His hands were loosely folded together.