“Yes, Doctor.”
Hollander came inside. Miss Murrow closed the door and locked it again. She stood watching Hollander as he went an uncertain step or two toward the bed, with that natural hesitation with which one approaches the very ill. He was a personable young man in his thirties. He was more than personable, she decided. Not handsome, exactly—heavens, no—she corrected herself rapidly. The features weren’t moulded in the tiresome regularity of handsomeness. Engaging? Perhaps. A body perfectly proportioned, with the broad shoulders and slim hips of a fighter—of, yes, a prize fighter—an amateur sportsman.
Hollander had finished with staring down at Endicott. His walk, as he came over to where she was standing, caused Miss Murrow to change her opinion as to his vocation. She put him down as a sailor, a yachtsman. There was a buoyancy, a certain fluidity, in his movements, as if his feet were accustomed to maintaining him with poise across the surfaces of moving things. His eyes, except for one flashing glance, did not meet her own directly.
“Is it all right to smoke?” he said.
Miss Murrow smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Hollander. Mr. Endicott’s lungs require as clear air as possible. I’ve even opened that window a little to keep the atmosphere in the room quite fresh.” She nodded toward the window above the large mahogany chest. The sash was up about six or seven inches from the bottom.
“Oh.” Hollander continued to stand before her, giving her still that peculiar effect of movement. There was nothing perceptible about it. His body was like a stolid field, motionless, beneath drifting shadows of the clouds. “Will Dr. Worth be here when Herb comes to?”
Nurse Murrow felt a professional stiffening. “I will inform Dr. Worth at the first sign of returning consciousness.”