Dr. Demmet heard the knock and put his sand wedge into a closet. He had been chipping peanuts from the wall-to-wall dull gray carpeting to the back of a worn leather chair. If he could chip a peanut off a carpet with a sand wedge, why couldn't he do it with a golf ball close to the green?

This was the problem, then, that faced him as the distraught woman entered. He knew immediately that the nurse had let on. He saw Mrs. What's-her-name, clutching her pocketbook, knuckles white. Her jaw quivered.

"Will you sit down please?" said Dr. Demmet, motioning to the green leather chair near his desk. He whisked away the peanuts with a swipe of his left hand.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Boulder. "Everything is all right, isn't it?"

Dr. Demmet's face was sombre. He lowered his eyes momentarily, circled the desk and sat down, even though he knew he must rise again in a moment. He made a cathedral arch of his fingers before him, nails immaculately white, hands scrubbed clean, clean to the redness of the palms and knuckles.

Dr. Demmet stared mournfully at the hands. Mrs. Boulder trembled.

"We did everything we could for Jim," said Dr. Demmet.

"John," corrected Mrs. Boulder weakly.

"We did everything we could for John. There were complications."

"No," cried Mrs. Boulder.

"The heart gave out. The appendectomy was perfect. Perfect. It was the heart."

"No. Not John. Not John. No!" cried Mrs. Boulder, and then the tears came in overwhelming grief.

"We took every precaution," said Dr. Demmet. He let the first rush of grief run itself out before he rose from his seat, placed a comforting arm around the widow, helped her to her feet, and out the door to the first nurse they encountered in the hallway, giving explicit instructions that everything that was possible should be done for this woman. He ordered a mild sedative.