Death had already begun to clear away the mask of vice and cynicism and a
lost prettiness peered through. But the eyes were terribly alive and
old. So long as they kept open there could be no mistaking her. They
travelled from face to face, and sought and questioned. Her voice
sounded reedy and far-off.
"Not going this trip, am I, doctor?"
Rogers patted the bed.
"Certainly not. Going along fine. What do you expect to feel like--with
a hole like that in your inside? Next time you have a young man, see he
doesn't carry firearms."
One of the eyes tried to wink--pitifully, obscenely.
"You bet your life. Don't want to die just yet."
"Nobody does."
They drew a little apart. Rogers consulted with his colleague. The
serious loss of blood must be made good. A transfusion. There was a
young man who had offered himself. A suitable subject. This afternoon
at the latest.
They moved on. Robert spoke to the man next him. But he knew that
Francey heard him. He meant her to hear.
"It's crazy. They ought to be glad to let a woman like that slip out.
If she lives she'll only infect more people with her rottenness. She's
better dead. Instead of that they'll suck out somebody else's vitality
to save her. The better the life the more pleased they'll be to risk it.
This sacrificing the strong to the weak--a snivelling sentimentality."
The man he spoke to glanced at him curiously--it was not usual for Robert
Stonehouse to speak to anyone--and said something about the medical
profession and the sanctity of life.
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