I met his gaze.
"What was that thing that you have fought and driven off? What is the mystery of it? You know—you must know. Tell me."
His eyelids fell.
"Better to leave the past alone," said he. "Granting that I had formed an idea, I could not put it into proper words. I have tried to do so. In the expectation of death I wrote down certain matters. But these I shall now destroy. I am wiser, less morbid. I can perceive that there are fields of thought of which it is advisable to keep closed the gates. Do as I do, Carl—forget. Take the credit for my recovery, and be content with that."
I felt that he was right, and resumed my position near the window, humming a tune.
"In a week you may put your foot to the ground; you will then no longer have to be carried about like a parcel." I spoke in a casual tone.
"Good!" he ejaculated.
"And then our engagement will come to an end, and you will begin to sing again."
"Ah!" he said contemplatively, after a pause, "sing!"