“She looks as if it were only one thing,” she said. “But don’t tell her. When you have seen her, come and tell me. She is upstairs.”
After he had gone Jeannie went to the window and looked out. The full abundance of spring was in the air; the false death of winter was over, and all living things rejoiced in this renewal of the world. The grass of the lawn was starred with young crocuses, gnarled trees put out their sheaves of tender living leaves; all was as it had been twelve months ago. But in the lives of men no such renewal and repetition is admitted. The year passes, and they are a year nearer to the grim apparition of decay and death. It seemed to her a long time before the footstep of the doctor again sounded on the stairs. She faced round again into the room to meet him.
“I have not told her,” he said, “as you desired. But there is no doubt—cancer.”
“Would any operation give her a chance?”
“A chance certainly, but a more than doubtful one. It is of five months’ growth at least.”
“If she had come earlier this chance would have been better?” asked Jeannie.
“Undoubtedly.”
“Shall I tell her?” she asked.
“She had better be told. The operation would be dangerous. If it is left, the end is certain, and probably—though one can never tell—not far distant. It is a case where she must decide whether to have the operation or not.”
“Do you recommend it?”