"What do you mean by 'blowing out the candle'?" she asked.
"Well," he answered, "it means, shut up shop, drop the curtain, or anything you like. It means X Y Z and the grand finale!"
"Oh!" she said, with a little start, as the thing dawned upon her.
"Don't speak like that; you're not going to die."
"Give me your handkerchief," he answered. "Give it to me, and I'll tell you—how soon."
She jammed her hand down in her pocket. "No, I won't," she answered.
"I won't!"
She never did, and he liked her none the less for that. Somehow, up to this time, he had always thought that he would get well, and to-morrow he would probably think so again; but just for the moment he felt the real truth.
Presently she said (they spoke in French):
"Why is it you like our old kitchen so much? It isn't nearly as nice as the parlour."
"Well, it's a place to live in, anyhow; and I fancy you all feel more at home there than anywhere else."
"I feel just as much at home in the parlour as there," she retorted.