"She must know, however, sooner or later," observed Theodore coldly.
"I'm afraid she must. But why protract her misery? She is very sensitive, devotedly attached to your father, and not too strong."
"Mrs. Bransby always appears to me to enjoy good health enough to take any exertion she feels inclined for."
"I was not alluding to muscles, but nerves," returned the doctor drily. "There is a little hysterical tendency. And her health is too valuable to her children to be trifled with."
They drove on in silence to Mr. Bransby's garden gates. Theodore alighted, and stood at the carriage door.
"Does my father know?" he asked in a low voice.
"There, I confess, I am puzzled," said Dr. Hatch. "I have never told him his danger in plain words; but he is too clever a man to be hoodwinked. My own impression is, that your father suspects his state to be critical, but shrinks from admitting it even to himself. I think there must be some private reason for this," added the doctor, leaning forward and peering into Theodore's face as he stood in the moonlight: the moonlight which at that same moment was shining in May's eyes, looking at her young lover. "It certainly does not arise from cowardice. Your father is one of the manliest men I have ever known."
If Theodore knew, or guessed, that his father had any secret reason for anxiety, he did not betray it.
"I have observed increasing weakness of character in him lately," he said.
The words might have been uttered so as to convey perfect filial tenderness. But there was a subtle something in the tone suggestive of contempt; or at least of remoteness from sympathy, which jarred painfully on Dr. Hatch. He said "Good night" abruptly, and gave his coachman the order to drive on.