"Don't you think that in time we forget things?"
"I suppose in ten years I will forget things—in part."
"Nonsense! In five years—two—you'll be married."
"So you think that of me?" said he after a time. "Fine!"
"But you have always told me that life is life, you know."
"Yes, sometimes I have tried my hand at scientific reasoning. But when I say ten years for forgetting anything, that's pathological diagnosis, and not personal. I try to reason that time will cure any inorganic disease just as time cures the sting of death. Otherwise the world could not carry its grief and do its work. The world is sick, near to death. It must have time. So must I. I can't stay here and work any more. If you can see—if you get well and normal again—I'll be here."
She looked at him steadily. He wanted to take her face between his hands.
"Oh, I'll not leave here until everything is right with your case. There's good excuse for me to go out. It will be for you the same as though we had never met at all."
"That's fine of you! So you believe that of me?"
"Why not? I must. You're married. That's outside my province now. I've just come to tell you now that I don't think we ought to wait any longer about your eyes. We'll try this afternoon, in our little hospital here. I wish my old preceptor were here; but Annie will help me all she can, and I'll do my very best."