“Do you think I am going to die?” Irene asked abruptly.
The doctor looked at her a moment in silence.
“I want to know just what you think. If you think I won’t get well, I want to know it, and I want you to tell me what is the matter.”
“You have consumption.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that,” she said in a trembling voice.
“You ordered me to tell you the truth.”
“Yes, I know. How soon do you think I will die?”
“That, madam, is only a question of time. Your disease has passed the aid of human skill, and you may as well know the worst, if you have any business to attend to. Consumption is very flattering, and it is quite impossible to determine when the disease will meet with a change. You may live a year and you may not.”
“Tell me truly; do you think I will not live long?”
“I cannot really tell,” the doctor said evasively. “I think your time is short.”