“ ‘You feared something of this sort when you came to me?’ I asked.
“ ‘My mother died of it,’ he answered quietly. ‘And once or twice lately, after exercise, I’ve had an agonising twinge of pain.’ And then, under his breath, he added: ‘Thank God, she doesn’t know!’
“ ‘But I would like another opinion,’ I continued. ‘There are men, as you know, who are entirely heart specialists, and I will give you the address of one.’
“ ‘Confirmation of the death sentence,’ he laughed grimly. ‘No saddling-up for me—eh, Doctor?’
“ ‘Not as you are at present, Mr. Digby.’ I was writing the address of the biggest heart man on a piece of paper, though I felt it was useless. It didn’t require an expert to diagnose this trouble.
“ ‘Is there any chance of getting better?’ he cried eagerly, and I stopped writing and looked at him. There was hope—a dawning hope in his eyes—and for a moment I hesitated.
“My own opinion was that there was no chance: that he might, with care and luck, live for two or three years—perhaps more—but that he might equally well drop dead at any moment. It was enough—that momentary hesitation; the eager look in his eyes faded, and he sat back wearily in his chair.
“ ‘Don’t bother,’ he said slowly; ‘I see how it is.’
“ ‘No, you don’t, Mr. Digby,’ I answered. ‘You see how I think it is. Which is an altogether different matter. There is always a chance.’
“ ‘That’s juggling with words,’ he said, with a twisted little smile. ‘The great point is that I’m not in a position to ask this girl to marry me.’