"There does not seem much consolation in it, Cuthbert," she said, quietly.
"There is to me," he said, "that shows you are not a soldier. To a soldier it makes all the difference as he lies wounded, whether he has shared in a victory or suffered in a defeat."
"Then I am very glad that you have won if it makes any difference to you, Cuthbert. Now you know you have to lie very still, and I am sure talking is very bad for you."
"I don't suppose it makes any difference one way or the other, Mary. A few hours, perhaps, but whether it is to-day or to-morrow is immaterial."
"You must not talk like that, Cuthbert, and you must not think so. The doctor says that although, of course, you are badly wounded, he thinks there is every hope for you."
"So the surgeon said who dressed my wounds last night, Mary, but I knew that he did not really think so."
"But I am sure Dr. Swinburne does think so, Cuthbert. I am certain that he was not trying to deceive me."
"Well, I hope that he is right," Cuthbert replied, but with the indifference common to men in extreme weakness. "I should certainly like to give the finishing touches to those two pictures. There is nothing else to show for my life. Yes, I should like to finish them. You are looking bad yourself," he added, suddenly, "all this is too much for you."
"I am only tired," she said, "and of course it has been trying work for the last twenty-four hours."
"Well, you must go home and get some rest. If I had been going soon I should have liked you to have stopped with me till I went, but if, as you say, the doctor thinks I may last for a time it does not matter, and I would rather know that you were getting a rest than that you were wearing yourself out here. What o'clock is it now?"