"Quite sure."
"Since when?"
"Only recently—during the night, probably. But the eyes show it unmistakably—and the dryness of the mucous membrane."
"I know," said Sophy. So well she knew that she felt as if her own mouth were like an ash, merely from her vivid realisation of the doctor's words.
"Have you taxed him with it?" she then asked.
"Yes. He only jeers. Asks me how he could have got it—says that he's not a wizard. It's terrible, Mrs. Chesney, terrible! If Nurse Harding were only here!"
"Yes. It seems as if Fate were against him."
"Fate!" cried Bellamy. "Himself, you mean! How he could descend to this when——"
He broke off abruptly, shocked by the white hopelessness of the young face.
"Forgive me," he said. "Besides, one should never judge too harshly in these cases. I've heard of men, anxious to be cured, getting well over the cursed thing, getting quite free of it for as much as a year, then, in some sudden moment of weakness, returning to it."