SYNOPSIS
rElderly Lady Lucy Angkateil
discussed the problem of enter
taining the incompatible group oi
guests she had invited to The Hol
low for the coming wek-end with
young Midge Hardcastle, a distant
relative. Outside or attractive Dr.
John Christow and JSerda, his in
credibly dull wife, the others were
jU members of the Angkateil clan:
lundiy Henrietta Savernake, suc
cessful sculptress; serious-minded
voting David Angkateil, university
student; and quiet Edward Angka
lell, whose unrequitted love ol
Henrietta blinded him to the
charms of Midge, who had adored
him since childhood. Meanwhile,
in heir London studio, Henrietta
was in the throe* of completing
her latest masterpiece—the blind
Nausicaa. The search for just the
right model had been long and
arduous and, although the fea
tures of the girl she had finally
chosen were perfect, the sordid
ness of her character had some
how managed to creep in'.o Hen
rietta's finished work. Not even
thoughts of John Christow, with
whom Henrietta had been in love
for the past six months, dispelled
her dissatisfaction with the statue,
ar.d reluctantly, she destroyed it.
in his Harley Street consulting
room, John Christow sat ponder
ing the cause of his increasing
latitude and irritability. Follow
ing lv.nch with the children, he
and Gerda would drive to The
Hollow . . . and Henrietta. His
thoughts wen.t back to an earlier
chapter in his lif?, fifteen year;
agc, when he had been madly in
love with glamorous Veronica
Cray, rising young motion picture
actress. He had broken their en
gtgement when she refused to
give up her career, and shortly
after had married the prosaic Ger
dt. whose slavish devotion to him
through the years had enabled
hiTi to pursue his beloved profes
ilon in peace.
CHAPTER SIX
In the dining room of the flat
above the consulting room, Gerda
Christow was staring at a joint of
mutton.
Should she or should she not
«»nd it back to the kitchen to be
kept warm?
If John was going to be much
longer it would be cold—congeal
ed. and that would be dreadful.
But, on the other hand, the last
patient had gone, John would be
up in a moment, if she sent it
back there would be delay—John
was so impatient. “But surely you
knew I was just coming . .
There would be that tone of sup
pressed exasperation in his voice
that she knew' and dreaded. Be
sides. it would get overcooked,
dried up—John hated overcooked
meat.
But on the other hand he dis
liked cold food very , much indeed.
At any rate, the dish was nice
•nd hot.
Her mind oscillated to and fro
and her sense of misery and anx
iety deepened.
The whole world had shrunk to
a leg of mutton getting cold on a
d<sh.
On the other side of the table
her son Terence, aged twelve,
said:
“Boracic aalts burn with a
green flame, sodium salts are yel
low.”
Gerda looked distractedly across
the table at his square freckled
face. She had no idea what he was
talking about.
‘'Did you know that, Mother?”
"Know what, dear?”
“About salts.”
Gerda’s eyes flew distractedly
to the salt cellar. Yes, salt and
pepper were on the table. That
was all right. Last week Lewis
had forgotten them and that had
annoyed John. There was always
lomething.
“It’s one of the chemical tests,"
•aid Terence in a dreamy voice.
“Jolly interesting, I think.”
Zena, aged nine, with a pretty,
vacuous face, whimpered:
"I want my dinner. Can’t we
tfart, Mother?”
"In a minute, dear; we must
wait for Father.”
"We could start,’ said Terence.
“Father wouldn’t mind. You know
how fast he eats.”
Gerda shook her head.
Crave the mutton? But she
r.ever could remember which was
the right side to plunge the knife
in. Of course, perhaps Lewis had
put it the right way on the dish—
but sometimes she didn’t—and
John was always annoyed if it
was done the wrong way. And,
Gerda reflected desperately, it al
ways was the wrong way when
she did it. Oh, dear, how cold the
gravy was getting — a skin was
-orming on the top of it—she must
send it back—but then if John
were just coming—and surely he
would be coming now—
Her mind went around and
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around unhappily. . .like a trapped
animal.
* * *
Silting back in his consulting
room chair, tapping with one’hand
on the table in front of him, con
scious that upstairs lunch must be
ready, John Christcw was never
theless unable to force himself to
get up.
San Miguel . . . blue sea . . .
smell of momosa ... a scarlet tri
toma upright against green leaves
. . . the hot sun . . . the dust. . .
that desperation of love end suf
fering
He thought, Oh, Lord, not that.
Never that again! That’s over.
He wished suddenly that he
had never known Veronica, never
married Gerda, never met Henri
etta.
ivxxs. xiaoixe, re inougni, was
worth the lot of them. . . . That
had been a bad afternoon last
week. He’d been so pleased with
the reactions. She could stand .005
by now. And then had come that
aiarming rise in toxicity and the
D. L. reaction had been negative
instead of positive.
The ^.old bean had lain there,
blue, gasping for breath—peering
up at him with malicious, indomit
able eyes.
“Making a bit of a guinea pig
out of me, ain’t you, dearie? Ex
perimenting—that kinder thing.”
“We want to get you well,” he
had said, smiling down at her.
“Up to your tricks, yer mean!’
She had grinned suddenly. "I
don’t mind, bless yer. You carry
on, doctor! Someone’s got to be
first, that’s it, ain’t it? ’Ad me
’air permed, 1 did, when I was a
kid. It wasn’t ’alf a difficult busi
less then! Looked terrible, I did.
Couldn’t get a comb through it.
But there—I enjoyed the fun.You
can ’ave yer fun with me. I can
stand it.”
“Feel pretty bad, don’t you? ’
His hand was on her pulse. Vital
ity passed from him to the pant
ing old woman on the bed.
“Orful. 1 feel. Your’re about
right! ’Asn’t gone according to
plan—that’s it, isn’t it? Never you
mind. Don’t you lose ’eart. I can
stand a lot, I can!”
John Christow said appreci
atively:
‘You’re fine. I wish all my pa
tients were like you.”
“I wanter get well . . . that's
why! I wanter get well. . . . Mum.
she lived to be eight-eight—and
old grandma was ninety when she
popped off. We’re long livers in
cur family, we are.”
He had come away miserable,
racked with douot and uncertain
ty. He’d been so sure he was on
the right track. Where had he
gone wrong? How diminish the
toxicity and keep up the hormone
content and at the same time neu
tralize the pantratin?
He’d been too cock-sure — he’d
taken it for granted that he’d cir
cumvented all the snags.
*
And it was then, on the steps
of St. Christopher’c that a sudden
desperate weariness had over
come him—a hatred of all this
long, slow, wearisome clinical
work, and he’d thought of Henri
etta. Thought of her suddenly, not
■as herself, but of her beauty and
her freshness, her health and her
radiant vitality — and the faint
smell of primroses that clung
about her hair.
And he had gone to Henrietta
straight away, sending a curt tele
phone message home about being
called away. He had strode into
the studio and taken Henrietta in
his arms, holdin her to him with
a fierceness that was new in their
relationship.
There l ad been a quick, startled
wonder in her eyes. She had freed
herself from his arms and had
made him coffee. And as she
moved about the studio she had
thrown out desultory questions.
Had he come, she asked, straight
frcm the hospital?
He didn’t want to talk about the
hospital. He wanted to forget that
the hospital and Mrs. Crabtree
and Ridgeway’s disease and all
the rest of the caboodle existed.
But, at first unwillingly, then
more fluently, he answered her
questions. And presently he was
striding up and down, pouring out
a spate of technical explanations
and surmises. Once or twice he
paused, trying to simplify—to ex
plain.
‘You se, you have to get a re
action—”
“Yes, yes, the D.L. reaction has
to be positive. I understand that.
Go on.”
He said sharply: “How do you
know about the D.L. reaction?”
“I got a book—”
“What book? Whose?”
She motioned toward ’ the small
book table. He snorted.
“Scobell? Scobell’s no good.
He’s fundamentally unsound. Look
here, if you want to read —
don’t—”
ane mrerrupieu uuu.
“I only want to understand
some of the terms you use
enough so as to understand you
without making you stop to ex
plain everything the whole time.
Go on. I’m following you. all
righ.”
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “re
member Scobell’s unsound.” He
went on talking. He talked for two
hours and a half. Reviewing the
set-backs, analyzing the possibil
ities, outlining possible theories.
He was hardly conscious of Henri
etta’s presence. And yet, more
than oilce, as he hesitated, her
quick intelligence took him a step
on the way, seeing, almost before
he did, what he was hesitating to
advance. He was interested now,
and his belief in himself was
creeping back. He bad been right
—the main theorv was correct—
and there were v/ays, more ways
tlian one, of combatting the toxic
-ymptoms.
And then, suddenly, he was tired
out. He’d got it all clear now. He’d
get on to it tomorrow morning.
He’d ring up Neili, tell him to
combine the two somtions and try
that. Yes—try that. Heavens, he
wasn’t going to be beaten!
“I’m tired,” he said abruptly.
“My Lord. I’m tired.”
And he had flung himself down
and slept—slept like the dead.
(To Be Continued)
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