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first, that’s it, ain’t it? ’Ad me ’air permed, I did, when I was a kid. It wasn’t ’alf a difficult business then. Looked like a nigger, I did. Couldn’t get a comb through it. But there—I enjoyed the fun. You can ’ave yer fun with me. I can stand it.”
    â€œFeel pretty bad, don’t you?” His hand was on her pulse. Vitality passed from him to the panting old woman on the bed.
    â€œOrful, I feel. You’re about right! ’Asn’t gone according to plan—that’s it, isn’t it? Never you mind. Don’t you lose ’eart. I can stand a lot, I can!”
    John Christow said appreciatively:
    â€œYou’re fine. I wish all my patients were like you.”
    â€œI wanter get well—that’s why! I wanter get well. Mum, she lived to be eighty-eight—and old Grandma was ninety when she popped off. We’re long-livers in our family, we are.”
    He had come away miserable, racked with doubt and uncertainty. He’d been so sure he was on the right track. Where had he gone wrong? How diminish the toxicity and keep up the hormone content and at the same time neutralize the pantratin?….
    He’d been too cocksure—he’d taken it for granted that he’d circumvented all the snags.
    And it was then, on the steps of St. Christopher’s, that a sudden desperate weariness had overcome him—a hatred of all this long, slow, wearisome clinical work, and he’d thought of Henrietta, thought of her suddenly not as herself, but of her beauty and her freshness, her health and her radiant vitality—and the faint smell of primroses that clung about her hair.
    And he had gone to Henrietta straight away, sending a curt telephone message home about being called away. He had strode into the studio and taken Henrietta in his arms, holding her to him with a fierceness that was new in their relationship.
    There had been a quick, startled wonder in her eyes. She had freed herself from his arms and had made him coffee. And as she moved about the studio she had thrown out desultory questions. Had he come, she asked, straight from the hospital?
    He didn’t want to talk about the hospital. He wanted to make love to Henrietta and forget that the hospital and Mrs. Crabtree and Ridgeway’s Disease and all the rest of the caboodle existed.
    But, at first unwillingly, then more fluently, he answered her questions. And presently he was striding up and down, pouring out a spate of technical explanations and surmises. Once or twice he paused, trying to simplify—to explain:
    â€œYou see, you have to get a reaction—”
    Henrietta said quickly:
    â€œYes, yes, the DL reaction has to be positive. I understand that. Go on.”
    He said sharply, “How do you know about the DL reaction?”
    â€œI got a book—”
    â€œWhat book? Whose?”
    She motioned towards the small book table. He snorted.
    â€œScobell? Scobell’s no good. He’s fundamentally unsound. Look here, if you want to read—don’t—”
    She interrupted him.
    â€œI only want to understand some of the terms you use—enough so as to understand you without making you stop to explain everything the whole time. Go on. I’m following you all right.”
    â€œWell,” he said doubtfully, “remember Scobell’s unsound.” He went on talking. He talked for two hours and a half. Reviewing the setbacks, analysing the possibilities, outlining possible theories. He was hardly conscious of Henrietta’s presence. And yet, more than once, as he hesitated, her quick intelligence took him a stepon the way, seeing, almost before he did, what he was hesitating to advance. He was interested now, and his belief in himself was creeping back. He had been right—the main theory was correct—and there were ways, more ways than one, of combating the toxic symptoms.
    And then, suddenly, he was tired