He weighed the morphine bottle in his hand, and pursed his lips over it.
“She must have taken between ten and twenty grains of the stuff,” said
he, musingly.
“That, of course, is incredible,” said I.
He shook his head and replied in a casual tone for which I hated him.
“Oh, no. An overdose will act that way with some people. The system
simply refuses to assimilate it or even retain it.”
I reported to him what I had done. He then went in and looked at Heloise
and asked a few questions.
Occasionally his eyes flitted about the shabby room. Then he would dart
little glances at her and at me.
He was a depressing person, this young physician. It was clear enough
the impression he got of us.
Heloise felt it keenly. I saw that little droop of sadness coming about
her mouth.
Then he told me that I had done about everything he could have done,
that she would be all right in a day or so, and that she had had a
rather lucky escape.
He left a little medicine, and went away. We both felt that he did not
care to have us call him again; and we each knew that the other felt
this, though we did not put it in words.