no use, doctor, all that. I've given up. It's all one to me,
now. Don't bother about me."

Stanchon looked genuinely concerned. He had worked hard over this
case, and it cut his pride to have the great specialist, with his
monotonous inflexible system, summoned against his express wish. That
meant they were all tired, disgusted, sick of the whole business. They
were determined to be rid of her.

"I wish you wouldn't look at it that way, Miss Mary," he said gently.
"I don't believe you need give up--if you'll only make an effort. But
it's fatal to give 'way: I've always told you that."

"Yes. You always told me that. You were always open and fair," she
said wearily, "but now you see it is fatal, for I _have_ given 'way.
Please go," she added nervously. "I feel more like crying. Ask him to
go, Miss Jessop..."

Her voice grew peevish and uncontrolled, and he bowed slightly and left
her. It was too bad, but there was nothing to do. Once or twice in
his brilliant career he had felt that same heavy hopelessness,
realized, to his disgust, that the patient's dull misery was creeping
over him, too, and that he had no power to help.

"Oh, well, you can't win out all the time," he said to himself
philosophically, "and it isn't as if she wouldn't have every comfort.
Old Jarvyse looks after them well: I'll say that for him."

The new butler met him as the lift reached the drawing-room floor.

"Mr. Edmund would like to see you a moment, sir," he murmured.
"He's--he's in the dining-room, doctor."

Stanchon turned abruptly and plunged into the great, dim leather-hung
apartment. He always felt as if he were entering into some vast cave
under the sea, when he crossed the threshold of this room, and the
peculiar odour of the leather always caught at his breath and choked
him for a moment. Edmund looked sulkier and more futile than usual,
even, and the cigarette that dropped from his trimmed and polished hand
had a positively insolent angle.

"Oh! How do!" he said discontentedly. "Been upstairs, I hear?"

"Yes," Stanchon answered briefly.

"Well, ... how about it?"

"I'm sorry to say your aunt is a little worse to-day; it may be,
probably is, nothing but a passing phase----"

"Ah, go on!" Edmund burst out. "Phase, nothing! She's as dippy as
they make 'em, Stanchon, and I'm through with it!"

The older man looked his disgust, but Edmund scowled and went on.

"After day before yesterday afternoon, I told