of suprarenal imbalance, there a line of sober thought was post-pituitary equilibrium. One couldn’t know—but then, so little could be known.…
Dr. Mellett Warfield was called, late one night, to the hospital,on a hormone case. It was one of the sedative and psychology sessions which he had always found so wearing; this one, however, was worse than usual. The consultation room was just down the corridor from Peg’s office—the office into which he used to drop for a chat any time he was nearby. He had not seen the inside of it for three months now; he had not been forbidden to come in, nor had he been invited. Since Robin disappeared, a stretched and silent barrier had existed between the doctors.
And tonight, Mel Warfield had a bad time of it. It wasn’t the patient—a tricky case, but not unusual. It was that silent office down the hall, empty now, and dark, empty and dark like Peg’s telephone voice these days, like her eyes … inside the office it would be empty and dark, but there would be a pencil from her hand, a place on the blotter where she put her elbow when she paused to think of—of whatever she thought, these distant days.
Efficient and hurried, he rid himself of his patient and, leaving the last details to a night nurse, he escaped down the corridor. He was deeply annoyed with himself; that room had been more with him than his patient. That wouldn’t do. Realizing this, he also recognized the fact that his recent isolation in his own laboratory had been just as bad, just as much preoccupation, for all the work he had done. “Overcompensation,” he muttered to himself, and then wanted to kick himself; here he was dragging out labels to stick on his troubles like a damned parlor psychologist. He opened the half-glazed door and stepped into Peg’s office.
He leaned back against the closed door and closed his eyes to accustom them to the dark. Peg seldom used scent, but somehow this room was full of her. He opened his eyes slowly. There was the heavy bookcase, with its prim rows of esoterica, green and gold, black and gold; some twin books, some triplets, some cousins to each other, but all of the same concise family, all pretending to be Fact in spite of having been written by human beings.… He shook himself impatiently.
The clock at the end of the desk sent him its dicrotic whisper, and glowed as faintly as it spoke. Half-past three … in twelve hours it would be like that again, only Peg would be sitting there, perhapsbowed forward, her chin on one hand, sadly pensive, thinking of—oh, a line of poetry and a ductless gland, a phrase from a song and a great, corrosive worry. If he opened his eyes wide to the desk in the darkness, he could all but see—
She sobbed, and it shocked him so that he cried out, and saw flames.
“Peg!”
Her shock was probably as great, but she made no sound.
“Peg! What is it? Why are you—it’s half-past—what are you—” He moved.
“Don’t turn on the light,” she said grayly.
He went round to her, held out his hands. He thought she shook her head. He let his hands fall and stood stupidly for a moment. Then he knew, somehow, that she was trembling. He dropped on his knees beside her chair and held her close to him. She cried, then.
“You’ve seen him.”
She nodded, moving her wet cheek against his neck. He thought, something has happened, and I’ve got to know what it it is—I’ll go out of my mind if I have to guess. “Peg, what happened?”
She cried. It was hurtful crying, the crying which granulates the eyelids and wrenches the neck-tendons with its sawtoothed, shameless squeaks.
He thought, I’ll ask her. I’ll ask her right out, the worst possible thing it could be, and it won’t be that. And then I’ll ask her the next worst thing. He wet his lips. “Did—did he—” But it wouldn’t come out that way. “He—asked you—”
She nodded again, her cheekbone hard and hot and wet against him. “I just said yes,”
Dr. Mellett Warfield was called, late one night, to the hospital,on a hormone case. It was one of the sedative and psychology sessions which he had always found so wearing; this one, however, was worse than usual. The consultation room was just down the corridor from Peg’s office—the office into which he used to drop for a chat any time he was nearby. He had not seen the inside of it for three months now; he had not been forbidden to come in, nor had he been invited. Since Robin disappeared, a stretched and silent barrier had existed between the doctors.
And tonight, Mel Warfield had a bad time of it. It wasn’t the patient—a tricky case, but not unusual. It was that silent office down the hall, empty now, and dark, empty and dark like Peg’s telephone voice these days, like her eyes … inside the office it would be empty and dark, but there would be a pencil from her hand, a place on the blotter where she put her elbow when she paused to think of—of whatever she thought, these distant days.
Efficient and hurried, he rid himself of his patient and, leaving the last details to a night nurse, he escaped down the corridor. He was deeply annoyed with himself; that room had been more with him than his patient. That wouldn’t do. Realizing this, he also recognized the fact that his recent isolation in his own laboratory had been just as bad, just as much preoccupation, for all the work he had done. “Overcompensation,” he muttered to himself, and then wanted to kick himself; here he was dragging out labels to stick on his troubles like a damned parlor psychologist. He opened the half-glazed door and stepped into Peg’s office.
He leaned back against the closed door and closed his eyes to accustom them to the dark. Peg seldom used scent, but somehow this room was full of her. He opened his eyes slowly. There was the heavy bookcase, with its prim rows of esoterica, green and gold, black and gold; some twin books, some triplets, some cousins to each other, but all of the same concise family, all pretending to be Fact in spite of having been written by human beings.… He shook himself impatiently.
The clock at the end of the desk sent him its dicrotic whisper, and glowed as faintly as it spoke. Half-past three … in twelve hours it would be like that again, only Peg would be sitting there, perhapsbowed forward, her chin on one hand, sadly pensive, thinking of—oh, a line of poetry and a ductless gland, a phrase from a song and a great, corrosive worry. If he opened his eyes wide to the desk in the darkness, he could all but see—
She sobbed, and it shocked him so that he cried out, and saw flames.
“Peg!”
Her shock was probably as great, but she made no sound.
“Peg! What is it? Why are you—it’s half-past—what are you—” He moved.
“Don’t turn on the light,” she said grayly.
He went round to her, held out his hands. He thought she shook her head. He let his hands fall and stood stupidly for a moment. Then he knew, somehow, that she was trembling. He dropped on his knees beside her chair and held her close to him. She cried, then.
“You’ve seen him.”
She nodded, moving her wet cheek against his neck. He thought, something has happened, and I’ve got to know what it it is—I’ll go out of my mind if I have to guess. “Peg, what happened?”
She cried. It was hurtful crying, the crying which granulates the eyelids and wrenches the neck-tendons with its sawtoothed, shameless squeaks.
He thought, I’ll ask her. I’ll ask her right out, the worst possible thing it could be, and it won’t be that. And then I’ll ask her the next worst thing. He wet his lips. “Did—did he—” But it wouldn’t come out that way. “He—asked you—”
She nodded again, her cheekbone hard and hot and wet against him. “I just said yes,”
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