“I am sorry to find you so unwell,” I said.
“Yes; I am very ill,” he returned.
Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly.
“Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart?”
“Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome death.”
“I do not think, from what Dr Duncan says of you, that there is reason to apprehend more than a lingering illness,” I said—to try him, I confess.
“I hope not indeed,” he exclaimed angrily, sitting up in his chair. “What right has Dr Duncan to talk of me so?”
“To a friend, you know,” I returned, apologetically, “who is much interested in your welfare.”
“Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs to you both by prescription.”
“For my part I would rather talk about religion to a whole man than a sick man. A sick man is not a WHOLE man. He is but part of a man, as it were, for the time, and it is not so easy to tell what he can take.”