Burns began to speak.  His tone was matter-of-fact, yet it held inflections of tenderness.  His friend’s case appealed to him powerfully; his sympathy with Leaver’s state of mind, as he was confident he understood it, was intense.  “If it were I!” he had said to himself—­and to Ellen—­and had groaned in spirit at the thought.  If it had been his own case, it seemed to him he could not have endured it.

“You were at that sanitorium,” Burns began.  “Sanitoriums are useful institutions, some of them get splendid results.  But they have their disadvantages.  It’s pretty difficult to eliminate the atmosphere of illness.  And, for a man whose training and instincts lead him to see behind every face he meets in such a place, it’s not an ideal spot at all.  What you need is a home, and that’s what we’re offering you, for as long as you need it.”

“And I appreciate it more than any words can express,” Leaver said gratefully.  He turned his head now, and looked at his host.  “Just to know that I have such friends does me good.  And I know that you mean all you say.  If I were a subject for a cure I might almost be tempted to take you at your word.”

“You are a subject for a cure.”

Leaver shook his head, turning it away again.  “Only to a certain point,” he said, quietly.  “Of course I know that rest and quiet will put my heart right, because there’s no organic lesion.  Probably I shall build up and get the better of my depression of mind—­to a certain extent.  But, there’s one thing I’m facing I haven’t owned to you.  You may as well know it.  I shall never be able to operate again....  Perhaps you can guess what that means to me,” he added.  His voice was even, but his breathing was slightly quickened.

Burns was silent for a time, his own heart heavy with sympathy for Leaver.  Guess what a conviction like that must mean to a man of Leaver’s early eminence in the world of distinguished operative surgery?  He surely could.  It had been his almost certain knowledge that this was his friend’s real trouble which had made him say to himself with a groan, “If it were I!” So he did not answer hastily to persist in assurance that all would yet be well.  He knew Leaver understood that sort of professional hypnosis too thoroughly to be affected by it.

Burns got up and took a turn or two up and down the room, thinking things out.  His face was graver than patients usually saw it; there was in it, however, a look of determination which grew, moment by moment, as he walked.  Presently he came back to the bedside and sat down again.

“Suppose you tell me all about it, Jack,” said he.  “You haven’t done me that honour, yet, you know.  Will it be too hard on you?  Just to make a clean breast of every thought and every experience which has led you to this point?  I know I’m rather forcing myself upon you as your physician.  If you prefer, I’ll withdraw from the case, in favour of any better man you may choose, and send for him to-day.”