"I do not know whether he has gonorrhea or not; it takes a long microscopic analysis to be sure; but there is every practical assurance that he's had it, and I know he's had syphilis."
If Vivian could have turned paler she would have, then.
"I've heard of—that," she said, shuddering.
"Yes, the other is newer to our knowledge, far commoner, and really more dangerous. They are two of the most terrible diseases known to us; highly contagious, and in the case of syphilis, hereditary. Nearly three-quarters of the men have one or the other, or both."
But Vivian was not listening. Her face was buried in her hands. She crouched low in agonized weeping.
"Oh, come, come, my dear. Don't take it so hard. There's no harm done you see, it's not too late."
"Oh, it is too late! It is!" wailed the girl. "I have promised to marry him."
"I don't care if you were at the altar, child; you haven't married him, and you mustn't."
"I have given my word!" said the girl dully. She was thinking of Morton now. Of his handsome face, with it's new expression of respectful tenderness; of all the hopes they had built together; of his life, so dependent upon hers for its higher interests.
She turned to the doctor, her lips quivering. "He loves me!" she said. "I—we—he says I am all that holds him up, that helps him to make a newer better life. And he has changed so—I can see it! He says he has loved me, really, since he was seventeen!"