Sometimes indeed he had an idea that Cosgrave was rather sorry for him,
very much as old people are sorry for the young, knowing the end to all
their enthusiasms. It was as though he had travelled ahead, and had
found out how meaningless everything was, even his clever friend's
strength and cleverness.
So he did not get better. And the forces that Robert Stonehouse had
counted on had failed. He had been a successful physician outside his
specialty and his sheer indifference to his patients as human beings had
been one of his chief weapons. He braced them, imposing his sense of
values so that their own sufferings became insignificant, and they ceased
to worry so much about themselves. But with Cosgrave he was not
indifferent. Some indefinable element of emotion had been thrown into
the scales, upsetting the delicate balance of his judgment.
And his old influence had gone too. It had failed him from that moment
in Connie Edwards' room when suddenly Cosgrave had realized the general
futility of things.
"I'll see him through all the same," Stonehouse thought, with a kind of
violence, "I'll pull him through."
After the first few moments he had ignored the scene before him. It was
boring--imbecile. Even to him, with his contempt for the average of
human intelligence, it seemed incredible that the gyrating of a few
half-naked women and the silly obscenities of a comedian dressed in a
humourless caricature of a gentleman should hold the attention of sane
men for a minute.
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