Andrew—Damn! This way, Doctor. Bring the lamp, Ruth. [He goes into the bedroom, followed by the Doctor and Ruth carrying the clean lamp. Ruth reappears almost immediately closing the door behind her, and goes slowly to the outside door, which she opens, and stands in the doorway looking out. The sound of Andrew’s and Robert’s voices comes from the bedroom. A moment later Andrew re-enters, closing the door softly. He comes forward and sinks down on the rocker on the right of table, leaning his head on his hand. His face is drawn in a shocked expression of great grief. He sighs heavily, staring mornfully in front of him. Ruth turns and stands watching him. Then she shuts the door and returns to her chair by the stove, turning it so she can face him.]
Andrew—[Glancing up quickly—in a harsh voice.] How long has this been going on?
Ruth—You mean—how long has he been sick?
Andrew—[Shortly.] Of course! What else?
Ruth—It was last summer he had a bad spell first, but he’s been ailin’ ever since Mary died—eight months ago.
Andrew—[Harshly.] Why didn’t you let me know—cable me? Do you want him to die, all of you? I’m damned if it doesn’t look that way! [His voice breaking.] Poor old chap! To be sick in this out-of-the-way hole without anyone to attend to him but a country quack! It’s a damned shame!
Ruth—[Dully.] I wanted to send you word once,
