"About Mr. Grimm. Does he know yet that he must die?"
"Does the whole damned town know it?" roared the doctor.
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Batholommey in prim horror at the explosive adjective.
"You see, Doctor," put in the rector with urbane haste, before his spouse could recover breath to rebuke the blasphemer or return to the attack. "You see, it's this way: You consulted Mr. Grimm's lawyer. And his wife told my wife."
"Gabbed, did he?" snorted McPherson. "To perdition with the professional man who gabs to his wife!"
"Oh, Doctor!" expostulated Mrs. Batholommey. "How can——?"
"I am inexpressibly grieved," said her husband, "to learn that Mr. Grimm has an incurable malady. And is it true that the nature of it is——?"
"The nature of the whole affair is this," returned McPherson. "He isn't to be told. Understand that, please. He must not know. I didn't say he had to die at once. He may outlive us all. He probably will. And, in any event, no one must speak to him about it."
"I should think," said Mrs. Batholommey in lofty rebuke, "that a man's rector might be allowed to talk to him on such a theme. It seems to me, Dr. McPherson, if you can't do any more, it's his turn. From the way you doctors assume control of everything, it's a wonder to me you don't want to baptise the babies, too."
"Rose!" murmured the doctor in mild reproof.