"But here is the assistant, Dr.Withers." Dr.Withers, bringing with him an intolerable smell of disinfectants and chloroform, hurried in, with his hair mussed from the haste with which he had removed his operating-garments.

He had small, bright, brown eyes, with little lines about them that seemed to suggest humor, but actually indicated that he buoyed up his life not by exaltation of himself, but by half-laughing depreciation of every one else.
"I thought you'd be glad to know, Mrs.Farron," he said, "that any danger that may have existed is now over.

Your husband--" "That _may_ have existed," cried Adelaide.

"Do you mean to say there hasn't been any real danger ?" The young doctor's eyes twinkled.
"An operation even in the best hands is always a danger," he replied.
"But you mean there was no other ?" Adelaide asked, aware of a growing coldness about her hands and feet.
Withers looked as just as Aristides.
"It was probably wise to operate," he said.

"Your husband ought to be up and about in three weeks." Everything grew black and rotatory before Adelaide's eyes, and she sank slowly forward into the young doctor's arms.
As he laid her on the bed, he glanced whimsically at the nurse and shook his head.
But she made no response, an omission which may not have meant loyalty to Dr.Crew so much as unwillingness to support Dr.Withers.
Adelaide returned to consciousness only in time to be hurried away to make room for Vincent.