‘There’s something I’ll just mention to you,’ he went on in a lowered tone, ‘though I don’t wish you to take it too seriously. I’m beginning to have a little trouble with my eyes.’
She looked at him, startled.
‘With your eyes?’
‘Nothing, I hope; but—well, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn’t care to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of cataract, or something of that kind; still, it’s better to know the facts, I should say.’
‘By all means go to an oculist,’ said Marian, earnestly.
‘Don’t disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in any case I must change my glasses.’
He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded him anxiously.
‘Now, I appeal to you, Marian,’ he continued: ‘could I possibly save money out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and fifty pounds, and often—I mean even in latter years—has been much less?’
‘I don’t see how you could.’
‘In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for five hundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible disablement. If I could no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me?’