And the old gentleman laughed, too, a queer hollow laugh that seemed to come from his backbone, with a rattle in it. And he laid two of his great bony fingers against the young girl’s pale, fresh cheek—as though death played with life, and would like to kiss it.
So they chatted pleasantly together in the morning sunshine amongst the grand old books which the rich man had collected about him. Katharine had no intention of telling him what had happened in Clinton Place, if she could help it. Uncle Robert did not seem to require any reason for her sudden determination to pay him a visit, as she had done before on more than one occasion. He was glad enough to have her, whatever her reasons might be.
Katharine breathed the atmosphere of freedom and revived. The certainty that for several days, at least, the perpetual contest with her father was not to be renewed, brought colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. But as the time wore on towards the hour for luncheon, and she came and went, and alternately talked with the old man and read aloud to him a little and sat in silence, watching his face, the conviction came over her that he could never get back his strength. The vitality was gone out of him, and he had grown listless. She could not tell whether he might live much longer, or not, but she felt that he had lost something which he could never regain.
“You feel stronger, don’t you?” she asked, in an encouraging tone.
He did not answer at once, but looked at her affectionately and dreamily.
“Don’t be worried about me, dear girl,” he said, at last. “I’m doing very well.”
“No, but really—” Katharine’s face took an anxious expression.
“Really?” he repeated, looking at her still. Then his head fell back against the dark red cushion. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, quietly. “But it’s coming—it’s coming by inches.”
But she knew it was true, and she began to talk of other things. He, however, seemed inclined to come back to the subject of his failing strength.