“Now about Mr. Armine,” he said, brushing the topic of himself away.  “I am sure—­”

But Doctor Hartley interrupted with quiet firmness.  One quality he seemed to have in the fullest abundance.  He seemed to be largely self-possessed.

“It always clears the ground to be frank, I find,” he said, smoothing out some creases in his ducks.  “I don’t require a consultation, Doctor Isaacson.  I don’t consider it a case that needs a consultation at present.  Directly I do, I shall be glad to call you in.”

Isaacson looked down at the rug beneath his chair.

“You consider Mr. Armine going on satisfactorily?” he asked, looking up.

“It’s a severe case of sunstroke.  It will take time and care.  I have decided to stay aboard for a few days to devote myself entirely to it.”

“Very good of you.”

“I have no doubt whatever of very soon pulling my patient round.”

“You don’t see any complications in the case?”

“Complications?”

The tone was distinctly, almost alertly, hostile.  But Isaacson reiterated coolly: 

“Yes, complications.  You are quite satisfied this is a case of sunstroke?”

“Quite.”

The word came with a hard stroke, that was like the stroke of finality.

“Well, I’m not.”

Doctor Hartley stared.

“I know you have come over with a view to a consultation,” he said, stiffly.  “But my patient has not demanded it, and as I think it entirely unnecessary, you will recognize that we need not pursue this conversation.”

“You say the patient does not wish for my opinion on the case?” said Isaacson, allowing traces of surprise to escape him.

“I do.  He is quite satisfied to leave it in my hands.  He told me so this morning when I arrived.”

“I am not reflecting for a moment on your capacity, Doctor Hartley.  But, really, in complex cases, two opinions—­”

“Who says the case is complex?”

“I do.  I was extremely shocked at the appearance of Mr. Armine when I saw him last night.  If you had ever known him in health, you would have been as shocked as I was.  He was one of the most robust, the most brilliantly healthy, strong-looking men I have even seen.”

As he spoke, Armine seemed to stand before Isaacson as he had been.

“The change in him, mind and body, is appalling,” he concluded.

And there was in his voice an almost fearful sincerity.

Doctor Hartley fidgeted.  He moved his hat, pulled down his ducks, dropped his cigarette on the rug, then rather hastily and awkwardly put it out with his foot.  Sitting with his feet no longer cocked up but planted firmly on the rug, he said: 

“Of course, an attack like this changes a man.  What else could you expect?  Really!  What else could you expect?  I noticed all that!  That’s why I am going to stay.  Upon my word”—­as he spoke he seemed to work himself into vexation—­“upon my word, Doctor Isaacson, to hear you, anyone would suppose I had been making light of my patient’s condition.”