He remembered a sentence out of a strange novel of Dostoieffsky's that he had once read, “The Brothers Karamazoff”: “It's a feature of the Karamazoffs ... that thirst for life regardless of everything--” and the Karamazoffs were of a sensual, debased stock--rotten at the base of them with an old drunken buffoon of a father--yes, that was like the Westcotts. All his life, struggle ... and young Stephen--all _his_ life, struggle... and yet, even in the depths of degradation, if the fight were to go that way there would still be that lust for life. So many times he had been almost under. First Stephen Brant had saved him, then at Brockett's Norah Monogue, then in Bucket Lane his illness, then in Chelsea his marriage, lately young Stephen... always, always something had been there to keep him on his feet. But if everything were taken from him, if he were absolutely, nakedly alone--what then? Ah, what then! He buried his head in his hands. “God, you don't know what young Stephen is to me--or, yes, of course you do know, God--and because you do know, you will not take him from me.” The little tearing pain at his heart held him--every now and again it turned like some grinding key. Mitchell entered with another doctor. Peter went over to the window, and whilst they made their examination, stared through the glass at the fretwork of trees, the golden haze of London beyond, two stars that now, when the storm had spent itself, showed in a dark dim sky. Very faintly the clanging note of trams, the clatter of a hansom cab, the imperative call of some bell came to him. The world could thus go on! Mitchell crossed to him and put his hand on his shoulder-- “He's pretty bad, Westcott. An operation's out of the question I'm afraid. But if you'd like another opinion--” “No thanks. I trust you and Hunt.” The doctor could feel the boy's body trembling beneath his touch. “It's all right, Westcott. Don't be frightened. We'll do all mortals can. We'll know in the early morning how things are going to be. The child's got a splendid constitution.” He was interrupted by the opening of the nursery door and, turning, the men saw Clare with the light of the passage at her back, standing in the doorway. Her cloak was trailing on the floor--around her her pink filmy dress hung like shadows from the light behind her. Her face was white, her eyes wide. “What--?” she whispered in the voice of a frightened child. Peter crossed the room, and took her with him into the passage, closing the door behind him. She clung to him, looking up into his face. “Stephen's very bad, dear. No, it's something internal--” “And I went out to a party?” her voice was trembling, she was very near to tears. “But I was miserable, wretched all the time. I wanted to come back, I knew I oughtn't to have gone.... Oh Peter, will he die? Oh! poor little thing! Poor little thing!” Even at that moment, Peter noticed, she spoke as though it were somebody else's baby.