Wareham had to intimate that it was not unlikely it would.
“Bad,” said the other. “However, as I said, I couldn’t consent to prevent a man from saying what he wished at this stage of his illness. You must do your best to keep him quiet.”
“And when?”
“In ten minutes.”
Ten minutes passed, and Wareham was at Hugh’s side. His heart sank at the alteration, and his voice, when he tried to speak cheerily, had a false ring which he fancied audible to all. Hugh looked at the nurse, who retired reluctantly, showing Wareham as she went out that a restorative was on the table.
“I waited,” said Hugh.
Wareham forced his face into a smile.
“Wait longer, old fellow, if you’re not up to talk. I’m here, night and day.”
“I know. You’ve been awfully good.”
His friend did not answer, except by laying his hand on an arm which shocked him by its thinness, and for a little while there was silence which Wareham did not dare to break. What lay beyond it? Hugh’s next words touched the sore.