He had never realised before what a curiously contemptible and
useless person he was. It seemed to him that this was all he was fit
for--to hang about doing nothing while everybody else was busy and
proving his or her own worth.
A door opened and the little doctor came quietly down the stairs. Kirk
sprang at him.
"Well?"
"My dear man, everything's going splendidly. Couldn't be better." The
doctor's eyes searched his face. "When did you have anything to eat
last?"
"I don't know. I had some eggs and milk. I don't know when."
The doctor took him by the shoulders and hustled him into the kitchen,
where he searched and found meat and bread.
"Eat that," he said. "I'll have some, too."
"I couldn't."
"And some whisky. Where do you keep it?"
After the first few mouthfuls Kirk ate wolfishly. The doctor munched a
sandwich with the placidity of a summer boarder at a picnic. His
calmness amazed and almost shocked Kirk.
"You can't help her by killing yourself," said the doctor
philosophically. "I like that woman with the gimlet eyes. At least I
don't, but she's got sense. Go on. You haven't done yet. Another
highball won't hurt you." He eyed Kirk with some sympathy. "It's a bad
time for you, of course."
"For _me_? Good God!"
"You want to keep your nerve. Nothing awful is going to happen."
"If only there was something I could do.
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