mmered. "What d'you mean?" He felt
mechanically at his tie. "I don't understand you," he said. Then,
recovering himself, as the strangely fierce expression died away from
the eyes which had learnt what they wanted to know, he added:

"I certainly shall not give permission for you to see Mr. Armine. You
would disturb and upset him very much. He needs the greatest quiet and
repose. The brain is a fearfully sensitive organ."

Now, suddenly, Isaacson felt as if he was with an obstinate boy, and any
anger he had felt against his companion evaporated. Indeed, he was
conscious of a strong sensation of pity, mingled with irony. For a
moment he had wronged the young doctor by a doubt, and for that moment
he had a wish to make some amends. The man's unconsciousness of it did
not concern him. It was to himself really that the amends were due.

"Doctor Hartley," he said almost cordially, "I think we don't quite
understand one another. Perhaps that is my fault. I oughtn't to have
repeated Mr. Armine's words. They were spoken and meant. But a sick man
speaks out of his sickness. We doctors realize that and don't take too
much account of what he says. You are here, I am sure, with no desire
but to cure my poor friend. I am here with the same desire. Why should
we quarrel?"

"I have no wish whatever to quarrel. But I will not submit to a man
butting in from outside and trying to oust me from a case of which I
have been formally given the control."

"I don't wish to oust you. I only wish to be allowed to co-operate with
you. I only wish to hear your exact opinion of the case and to be
allowed to form and give you mine. Come, Doctor Hartley, it isn't as if
I were a pushing, unknown man. In London I'm offered far more work than
I can touch. It will do your medical reputation no harm to call me in,
in consultation. Without undue conceit, I hope I can say that. And
if--if you have got hold of the idea that I'm on the Nile to make money,
disabuse your mind of it. This is a case in which a little bit of my own
personal happiness is wrapped up. I've--I've a strong regard for this
sick man. That's the truth of it."

Doctor Hartley looked at him, looked away, and looked at him again.

"I don't doubt your friendship for Mr. Armine," he said, at last, laying
a faint stress upon the penultimate word.

"Will you let me discuss the case amicably with you? No formal
consultation! Just let me hear your views fully, and mention anything
that oc