always neatly mended, betokening a mother with self-respect and
character. He even spoke of Garvin: adversity, worry, the heat, constant
brooding over a happier past and an uncertain future--was it surprising
that the poor man's mind had become unhinged? They must make some plan
for Garvin, said Mr. Bentley, get the man and his wife into the country
for a while amongst kindly people. This might no doubt be arranged....

"Here we are, sir."

The familiar smell of drugs, the sound of the trickling water in the soda
fountain roused Hodder to reality, to action, and he hurried into the
telephone booth, fumbled in the dog-eared book, got Dr. Jarvis's number
and called it. An eternity seemed to elapse before he had a reply, heard
his coin jangling in the bog, recognized the voice of the great doctor's
secretary. Yes, the doctor was in would he speak to Mr. Hodder, of St.
John's? . . . An interval, during which Hodder was suddenly struck
with this designation of himself. Was he still of St. John's, then? An
aeon might have elapsed since he had walked down the white marble of its
aisle toward the crouching figure in the pew. He was not that man, but
another--and still Mr. Hodder, of St. John's. . . . Then he heard the
specialist say, "Hello, Mr. Hodder, what can I do for you?" Heard his
own voice in reply, explaining the case. Could the doctor find time?
The doctor could: he was never too busy to attend to the poor,--though he
did not say so: he would be there--by half-past six. The rector hung up
the receiver, opened the door of the booth and mopped his brow, for the
heat was stifling.

"The doctor will go," he explained in answer to Mr. Bentley's inquiring
look.