you a thorough examination--and I will expect you in a week--we'll
talk things over, and see what is best. You have my bag, don't bother
coming on--all right then--here's a double seat--so I can stretch
out--though it's hardly worth while for an hour. Goodbye Clay,
remember all I told you!"

When the doctor went back to his office, he sat long in his chair in
front of the fire, and thought. The place was the same--the cheerful
fire--the rows of books--the Fathers of Confederation picture on
the wall--and his college group. Everything was the same as it had
been--only himself. Everything in the room was strong, durable, almost
everlasting, able to resist time and wear. He was the only perishable
thing, it seemed.

He wondered how people act when confronted by the ruin of their hopes.
Do they rave and curse and cry aloud? He could not think clearly--his
mind seemed to avoid the real issue and refuse to strike on the sore
place, and he thought of all sorts of other things.

The permanence--the dreadful permanence of everything in the room
seemed to oppress him. "Man is mortal," he said, "his possessions
outlive him every last one of these things is more durable than I am".
The gray wall of the office--so strong and lasting--what chance had
an army of microbes against it--the heavy front door, with its cherry
panels and brass fittings, had no fear of draughts or cold. It had
limitless resistance. The stocky stove, on its four squat legs, could
hold its own and snap its fingers at time. They were all so arrogantly
indestructible, so fearfully permanent--they had no sympathy, no
common meeting ground with him.