"Fulvia was wrong," Nigel added. He stood facing Dr. Duncan, his hand on the back of a chair. "I suppose—" and there was a break; "I suppose it is—hopeless?"
"As to the final outcome of the illness? I am afraid so. Not hopeless as to prolongation of life. Absolute recovery may be impossible, but these cases often last on indefinitely."
"With care—"
"Yes; that is essential."
"What kind of care?"
"I have told you already, in a measure. A quiet life, free from exertion and anxiety; if he can have this—"
"One would say he had it already."
The negative movement of Dr. Duncan's head was decided.
"My father is naturally inclined to worry himself about unimportant things, perhaps; but—"
"He must not worry himself. Every kind of worry must be kept at a distance. His own instinct will tell him often what to avoid; and that instinct must be obeyed. Fulvia did wrongly this morning, forcing upon him a subject from which he shrank. She might not know any reason for his shrinking; but he knew that he could not bear it, and we have seen the result."