He went in and took off his shirt and his shoes and lay down on his bed; he stared up at the ceiling, and at the red lampshade he had bought in Ceylon. Ten more days; the woman doctor who had told him had been so matter-of-fact and cool about it that it was obvious she was telling the truth. He tried to remember her name. Doctor Roberts, or Robbins—something like that. He would have to find out so he could send her something, some small present by way of thanks for her kindness when it was all over. He lay on his bed and sweated. He would have the apartment air-conditioned first of all; he had suffered enough summers because of Edward’s absurd belief that cold air from a machine was unnatural. Edward believed in closed shutters and open windows, in shade and breezes. Ten more days of sweating and suffering, and then it would be over. He was glad, in a grim way, that there was a time limit.
