“No, my boy,” said Mr. Touchett, “not unless you bury me in a sitting posture, as some of the ancients—was it the ancients?—used to do.”
“Ah, daddy, don’t talk about that,” Ralph murmured. “You mustn’t deny that you’re getting better.”
“There will be no need of my denying it if you don’t say it,” the old man answered. “Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We never prevaricated before. I’ve got to die some time, and it’s better to die when one’s sick than when one’s well. I’m very sick—as sick as I shall ever be. I hope you don’t want to prove that I shall ever be worse than this? That would be too bad. You don’t? Well then.”
Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone in charge, having just relieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary, and Ralph’s tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with an outline constantly varying but always grotesque.
“Who’s that with me—is it my son?” the old man asked.
“Yes, it’s your son, daddy.”
“And is there no one else?”
“No one else.”
Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, “I want to talk a little,” he went on.
“Won’t it tire you?” Ralph demurred.