They were within a foot of each other in the ebonised cubicle. Edwin's
legs were swinging a few inches away from the arm-chair. His hat was at
the back of his head, and Charlie's hat was at the back of Charlie's
head. This was their sole point of resemblance. As Edwin
surreptitiously examined the youth who had once been his intimate
friend, he experienced the half-sneering awe of the provincial for the
provincial who has become a Londoner. Charlie was changed; even his
accent was changed. He and Edwin belonged to utterly different worlds
now. They seldom saw the same scenes or thought the same things. But
of course they were obliged by loyalty to the past to pretend that
nothing was changed.
"You've not altered much," said Edwin.
And indeed, when Charlie smiled, he was almost precisely the old Sunday,
despite his metropolitan mannerisms. And there was nothing whatever in
his figure or deportment to show that he had lived for several years in
France and could chatter in a language whose verbs had four
conjugations. After all, he was less formidable than Edwin might have
anticipated.
"_You_ have, anyhow," said Charlie.
Edwin grinned self-consciously.
"I suppose you've got this place practically in your own hands now,"
said Charlie. "I wish _I_ was on my own, I can tell you that."
An instinctive gesture from Edwin made Charlie lower his voice in the
middle of a sentence. The cubicle had the appearance, but not the
reality, of being private.
"Don't you make any mistake," Edwin murmured. He, who depended on his
aunt's generosity for clothes, the practical ruler of the place! Still
he was glad that Charlie supposed that he ruled, even though the
supposition might be mere small-talk. "You're in that hospital, aren't
you?"
"Bart's."
"Bart's, is it? Yes, I remember. I expect you aren't thinking of
settling down here?"
Charlie was about to reply in accents of disdain: "Not me!" But his
natural politeness stayed his tongue. "I hardly think so," he said.
"Too much competition here. So there is everywhere, for the matter of
that." The disillusions of the young doctor were already upon Charlie.
And yet people may be found who will assert that in those days there was
no competition, that competition has been invented during the past ten
years.
"_You_ needn't worry about competition," said Edwin.
"Why not?"
"Why not, man! Nothing could ever stop you from getting patients--with
that smile! You'll simply walk straight into anything you want."
"You think so?" Charlie affected an ironic incredulity, but he was
pleased. He had met the same theory in London.
"Well, you didn't suppose degrees and things had anything to do with it,
did you?" said Edwin, smiling a little superiorly. He felt, with
pleasure, that he was still older than the Sunday; and it pleased him
also to be able thus to utilise ideas which he had formed from
observation but which by diffidence and lack of opportunity he had never
expressed. "All a patient wants is to be smiled at in the right way,"
he continued, growing bolder. "Just look at 'em!"
"Look at who?"
"The doctors here." He dropped his voice further. "Do you know why the
dad's gone to Heve?"
"Gone to Heve, has he? Left old Who-is-it?"
"Yes. I don't say Heve isn't clever, but it's his look that does the
trick for him."
"You seem to go about noticing things. Any charge?"
Edwin blushed and laughed. Their nervousness was dissipated. Each was
reassured of the old basis of `decency' in the other.
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