When we went into the drawing-room today the kindly old doctor felt Mireille's pulse and spoke to her, but all the time he was looking at me, and so was Mrs. Whitaker. He asked me several questions and when I told him what I felt, he coughed and said, "Hm.... Yes. Quite so." At last he glanced at Mrs. Whitaker, who at once got up and left the room with Mireille.
The doctor then beckoned to me and took my hand.
"My poor girl," he said, "have you anything to tell me?"
I was frightened. "What do you mean? Am I going to die? Am I very ill?"
He shook his head. "No. Why should you die? People don't die—" he commenced, and stopped.
"What about Mireille?" I asked, feeling terrified, I knew not why.
"Now we are speaking of you," he said, quite sternly.
Again he stopped as if expecting me to say something. I was bewildered. Perhaps the old man was a little strange in his head.
He coughed once more and his face flushed. Then he said: "I am an old man, my dear. I am a father—" He stopped again. "And I know all the sadness and wickednesses of the world. You may confide in me."
I said: "Thank you very much. I am sure I can."