"Perhaps so," said the doctor. "I should not like to say exactly to a day."
"No, certainly not. We cannot say exactly to a day; but I say ten days; as for anything like a recovery, that you know—"
"Is out of the question," said Dr Thorne, gravely.
"Quite so; quite so; coating of the stomach clean gone, you know; brain destroyed: did you observe the periporollida? I never saw them so swelled before: now when the periporollida are swollen like that—"
"Yes, very much; it's always the case when paralysis has been brought about by intemperance."
"Always, always; I have remarked that always; the periporollida in such cases are always extended; most interesting case, isn't it? I do wish Fillgrave could have seen it. But, I believe you and Fillgrave don't quite—eh?"
"No, not quite," said Dr Thorne; who, as he thought of his last interview with Dr Fillgrave, and of that gentleman's exceeding anger as he stood in the hall below, could not keep himself from smiling, sad as the occasion was.
Nothing would induce Lady Scatcherd to go to bed; but the two doctors agreed to lie down, each in a room on one side of the patient. How was it possible that anything but good should come to him, being so guarded? "He is going on finely, Lady Scatcherd, quite finely," were the last words Mr Rerechild said as he left the room.
And then Dr Thorne, taking Lady Scatcherd's hand and leading her out into another chamber, told her the truth.
"Lady Scatcherd," said he, in his tenderest voice—and his voice could be very tender when occasion required it—"Lady Scatcherd, do not hope; you must not hope; it would be cruel to bid you do so."